Rückkehrunruhe
by livewiresandwildfires
Summary: Russia is cold and unforgiving, but MI6 is even more so. Alex's mission morphs into something surreal, only to rapidly fade from his awareness once it ends.
1. The Beauty of a Snowstorm

**Warnings: **suicide attempt (no character death), prostitution

**Rated:** T

**Summary: **Russia is not a kind place for teenage spies - but at least Yassen is here.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**1—**

Timeline: Between _Games of Chance _and _Companionship_

_The harshest places are sometimes the most beautiful. Danger and beauty are often closer than we think. What could compare to the depths of the ocean? The endless wonder of space? Yet either could snuff out a light as easily as a candle in the breeze._

_What could compare with the whistling winds of a snowstorm, blanketing the world in white? As far as the eye can see. Turning everything perfectly uniform. Yet each snowflake different, unique, beautiful, but cold to the touch. Capable of monstrous deeds, of frostbite and hypothermia. Capable of taking your life, one crystalline particle at a time._

_The beauty is, in fact, what makes it so dangerous. Because no matter how cutting the edge, you can't help but come a little closer. Closer and closer until you are looking at this microscopic miracle under the lense._

_And you get so caught up in the beauty, you don't even notice as thousands of others blow in, surround you, bury you in ice._

* * *

Russia was cold and unforgiving. All stone and ice - the terrain, the building, the people. Maybe Alex would have thought differently if he was here under better circumstances. As it is, standing freezing in ripped rags on a tourist-crowded street, Russia has never looked bleaker.

Someone bumps into him roughly, barreling past with nay an apology, like he is invisible. He steps back, fading away against the wall. The drab colours he is dressed in acting like camouflage to his monotonous surroundings. Wrapping his ragged brown coat closer to himself, clawing at the rough fabric to keep in some warmth. He tugs the cowl of his hood lower.

A band of tourists shuffle past, not even acknowledging the dirty blond boy huddled against the wall. He is just one of many. As much a part of the city as the brick walls and cracked cobblestones. When they turn the corner, Alex looks down at his hands.

Two wallets and a bracelet. He is getting better at this. Practice, of course, makes perfect.

He opens one of the wallets to find a couple hundred Russian ruble's along with an American twenty. The other wallet was slightly less exciting; some shiny coins, Kasimov's, Pskov's and Murmon's. There is a credit card that he is sure will be cancelled before he gets the chance to use it. Otherwise, empty.

As for the bracelet… he might be able to pawn it if he was so inclined, but it didn't look expensive enough to be worth his time. He drops it on the ground in a small snowbank with the now empty wallets. Maybe someone else will find the trinket worth the hassle.

Continuing down the bustling street, his eyes scan for his next target. The crowds swarm together in intricate patterns, other potential pickpockets weaving among them. It was important that Alex didn't interfere with any of their marks - he is trying to lead a low profile, and that means not angering the local gangs.

A man enters his crosshairs. Tall, fair-haired, well muscled. Not decked in glamour, but clearly well off. An expensive, spotless black coat and a dark blue scarf. Fingerless gloves. Dark jeans tucked into army boots (similar to the ones Alex himself wore, but clearly newer and without the trauma that the streets have inflicted on his own.) The man was confident, which is what initially drew Alex's attention.

He was a challenge - just the type that Alex loved chasing. Just the man he had been looking for. Alex couldn't believe his luck.

His eyes scan the surrounding area. The man is alone. A solitary figure in a sea of huddled groups. Like a shark amidst several schools of fish.

He situates his hood, easily blending into the crowd, taking a winding path in the direction of his new target.

A few steps away from the man, Alex straightens, tilting his head up high. He lets his hood fall away from his face. This time, instead of making himself invisible, he makes himself as prominent as possible. People part from his path like he is Moses.

The man locks eyes with him just as Alex enters his personal bubble, probably sensing that this intruder of his space is not of innocent intent, as most of the crowd is. The man doesn't draw a weapon - most likely, he is expecting to be faced with a lowly pickpocket. Not that Alex isn't a thief, he just isn't _only _a thief.

Alex watches, up close and personal, privy to a front-row seat, as the shock enters those ice-blue eyes. Open a little wider, pupils dilating ever so slightly. There is a certain satisfaction to seeing surprise overtake the usual unchangeable blankness - like spray painting a crumbling blank wall into a work of art: out of place, but still a nice change. The slightest twitch of a hand towards a concealed weapon on instinct.

Then he is slamming into him, Alex's hand darts out fast as a speeding bullet. He stumbles away quickly, stepping into a side alley before breaking into a run. He needn't bother with subtlety - the man has already seen him, and anyone else on the street doesn't care. This isn't exactly a rare occurrence - a smartly dressed man chasing a street rat, yelling thief. His feet pound on the icy pavement as Alex desperately tries to keep his footing.

The gun he has just pickpocketed is jammed into the waistband of his torn jeans. The metal is as cold as ice.

His path crosses with a dozing (or possibly drunk) beggar in the alley, then he bursts through to the other side. Another group of pickpockets - with whom Alex is well acquainted - are huddled together for warmth. The buildings, too, are low and concentrated, as if seeking company like the people in the streets below. He turns the other way and-

-is slammed into with such a force he falls on his arse on the frost slick ground. Ouch. That's going to bruise.

He looks up: fair hair, blue eyes, stoney expression returned - no trace of the surprise that Alex had coaxed into them just moments before.

"Alexander…" Yassen says, Russian accent natural and native sounding, barely even out of breath. Alex wonders if this is the accent the man grew up with, or if his natural dialect had been slightly different. He can't tell either way. "My gun back, please."

He speaks Russian fluently, which Alex takes just a second longer to translate. Yassen holds out his hand expectantly for the misappropriated object. Alex smiles - a little more cheekily than is probably smart - and takes the outstretched hand to pull himself up. The man allows him to pull himself to his feet, looking exasperated.

Alex dusts the powdered snow off himself. He makes no move to hand the gun back.

"How did you find me so fast?" Alex asks. The man clearly hadn't followed him down the alley - he must have taken a different backway. Cut him off.

"I grew up on these streets," Yassen answers, blue eyes flickering around, reminiscing perhaps? Most likely not. "I know my way around."

Alex nodded, then wraps his arms around himself as a brisk wind blows through the narrow streets, cutting through his thin clothes. The group of street kids huddle closer together.

Yassen frowns, looking like he is biting at the inside of his cheek (a habit Alex is also often guilty of.) He reaches out and pulls Alex by the upper arm. A gentle but firm tug. "Let's go inside."

"I don't think any place is going to let me in," he gestures at his grimy street clothes. The same jeans, shirt, jacket, socks and shoes that he has been wearing for nearly a week now.

Yassen just nudges him forward, insistently leading him by the arm down the twisted back alleys. More beggars, more pickpockets. At some point - when Yassen is sure Alex would not bolt - the hand releases him. Drifts down to his waistband and retrieves the stolen gun. Alex lets him.

He didn't know what had possessed him to take the gun in the first place, anyway. He didn't need it, necessarily, though it might be handy to have. Anyway, he had just seen Yassen - a dead man that he hadn't had face to face contact with in over a year - and had decided to act. Blame temporary insanity.

Alex hadn't been sure how he would react to seeing Yassen again. Would he want to speak to him, or would he be content to just see the man from afar? Then he _had _seen Yassen, and something had come over him. Natural curiosity? The innate need for a challenge? An instinctive habit he had developed for chasing - or being chased by - danger? Something along those lines.

That same something that is pushing Alex to follow the deadly man now. Deadly to everyone but him. The same something that had pushed Alex to search for the man that is now next to him. Mission accomplished.

Right up to a dingy hotel squatting lowly off the beaten track, snowbanks piled against the sides like the ground is trying to swallow it. Through the creaking backdoor, up a small, rickety service staircase, into a dimly lit corridor. The door facing them is dark wood with a dented brass knob and a matching ornate knocker. Yassen produces an old fashioned key and inserts it into the lock. Old as it is, it requires some coaxing before the lock is willing to turn.

Another door swung open down the hall, and a bedraggled man steps out. Clearly not a tenant. Alex suspects the man is on the receiving end of a shady drug deal. Yassen pulls him into the shadowy room before he can see any more.

"So, Alexander," Yassen closes the door snuggly behind them, "What brings you pickpocketing guns on the streets of Moscow?"

Alex shrugs, passing Yassen and wandering around the room. Under the assassins watchful (slightly approving?) eye, he examines the room. Scrutinizing the curtains, the window sill. Running his hands over the twin bed - clearly unslept in. Glancing into the adjoining bathroom, and tugging the door fully shut.

Yassen even allows him to cast a critical eye over the single duffle bag at the foot of the bed, probing it with a stiff finger; Alex notices thin metal hairs protruding slightly from the zippers.

"Satisfied? The room isn't bugged."

Alex smiles, biting at his bottom lip and taking a seat on the bed uninvited. He swings his feet back and forth, childishly. "Can never be too careful."

Yassen nods, conceding the point. "So… what are you doing here, Alex?"

Alex pats the bed next to him, waiting pointedly for the assassin to sit. Yassen's eyes roll, but the man joins him without further complaint.

The bed creaks as Alex turns, examining the man up close. Yassen looks a lot softer from this distance (Alex would never say that out loud.) The chiselled edges seem less harsh, the blue eyes seem lighter - resembling a clear sky rather than freezing ice. Alex could see the beginning of stubble, as if the assassin had neglected to shave that morning. Small nicks and scars, invisible from a distance, are slightly more obvious up close; they make the assassin seem a little more human. Yassen watches him as well, sizing him up.

"I was on a mission. It ended rather abruptly, so MI6 told me to lay low until it is safe to get me out of the country."

"And when will that be?"

Alex shrugs. "Don't know. Soon, hopefully."

"What was the mission?"

"What makes you think I would tell _you_?"

"Because," Yassen's hand clamps down on Alex's knee, effectively drawing his direct attention, "back in the street, you saw me first. You could have disappeared and I would have been none the wiser. You engaged me. And after all this time, I think you trust me."

Alex turns his head down. Yes, he does trust Yassen. He isn't entirely sure why, but it's true. He had trusted Yassen (irrationally) since they had first met. He hadn't necessarily trusted the man not to hurt him, the lives they lived hadn't allowed for that, but he did always trust Yassen to be straight with him. To be honest and fair and always give him a fighting chance. Yassen had never lied to him - in the world of espionage, that was more than Alex could ask for.

This isn't the first time Alex has sought Yassen out when he could have turned tail and ran for the hills. In fact, he has spent quite a lot of his time after returning to England trying to get in contact.

The last time he had seen the man, he was bleeding out on the presidential plane, Air Force One. However, the last time they had spoken was a little more… recent. A little more than two weeks ago, in fact. Just before Alex had shipped out for this mission.

A little over six months ago, Alex had stumbled upon a continuity error in some paperwork. He had secretly been looking up his past missions - after the surprise of Julius Grief's prison escape, Alex wanted to be sure that all his enemies were right where he left him.

He had _thought _he had left Yassen Gregorovitch in a body bag. Evidence said otherwise.

He spent weeks afterwards trying to track the assassin down. Not out of any desire to seek revenge on the man (for sending him to Scorpia, killing his uncle and all), nor to bring him to justice with MI6 (he hardly trusted MI6 with information about Yassen after they lied to him), but out of a kind of natural-born curiosity. He wanted to _speak _with him. He wanted an explanation. _Why _had Yassen sent him to Scorpia? Was he aware of John's double agent status? Why did Yassen think it was alright to kill John's brother but not his son? Alex wanted to understand.

He knew he should probably hate the man. Yassen had been at least partially to blame for him being inducted into MI6, mostly to blame for him getting caught up in Scorpia, and _absolutely _to blame for him losing his last living relative. (Never mind that if Yassen hadn't killed Ian, someone else likely would have.) If anything, he should at least be scared of Yassen. A murder that had kidnapped him on more than one occasion, threatened him, and who's only argument for _not _killing him was that kids were off-limits. And what does that even mean? Once Alex could drink and vote he could also be shot in the head? His execution hinged on a few meaningless years of high school?

Alex can hardly be considered a kid anymore, and chances were high that whatever debt Yassen felt he owed John Rider had been paid when the assassin took a bullet to the chest.

The fact was, he _didn't_ hate Yassen. He wasn't scared. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't muster any negative emotions towards the man - not to the extent that they once existed. Certainly not to the point that he wanted to kill the man.

He just wanted to talk. Maybe even see him again. Yassen, he knew, wanted something similar. At least, that's the impression he gave Alex.

MI6, however, did not want that. They in no way wanted him to get in contact with the man - this was clear in the fact that '6 had neglected to make him aware of Yassen's continued existence above ground. Sadly, Alex wasn't very good at doing what other people wanted.

Eventually, he got in contact with Yassen through one of their… shared clients. As in, someone Alex had spied on and Yassen had killed for. Alex broke into the man's house, downloading the contacts off a cell phone while he was sleeping. (Who keeps an assassin's number in their phone anyway? Speed dial number five? That's messed up. The lawyer was number six.)

The number was completely untraceable, but Alex didn't need to trace him. Instead, he sent a text.

_Glad to hear you're alive._

A response hadn't come for several days. When it did, it was just a single word.

_Likewise._

He and Yassen continued to correspond over the secure number. One month after the first message, a cell phone had appeared in his house, one number programed in. His own phone was secure - even from MI6 - but Yassen had wanted to be positive. Alex couldn't blame him for wanting to stay under the radar - world's most wanted and all.

After the burner had arrived, they were able to speak. Yassen had been the first to call. Despite this new found liberty to talk, they were still careful. Never said their full names - or anyone else's - never said where they were. Ian was 'my uncle', Jack was 'my housekeeper', Tom was 'my friend', MI6 was 'my agency', and Scorpia was 'your organization'.

This way, anyone listening in wouldn't understand much of what was being said. They wouldn't be able to be traced. Occasionally an 'Alex' or 'Yassen' slipped out, but those at least weren't damning information.

Over time, they grew more comfortable speaking with each other. Alex would even say they had gotten close - would go as far as to say Yassen was one of the only friends he had on this side of things. He figured Yassen felt the same - they had always had a kind of irrational bond between them. One that led them to be a little more comfortable than was probably safe. Eventually, Yassen slipped.

Just a little thing. When they spoke, Yassen always used an accentless voice in plain English. But a month ago, maybe Yassen was tired, not thinking straight, but when the man answered it was in German. Luckily, Alex spoke German fluently, and he had replied the same. After a three minute conversation, they parted ways.

Alex immediately Googled current events in Germany (it was a long shot - lots of places spoke German - but Alex was feeling lucky), and stumbled across an interesting article. An apparent accident. A limousine blew a tire when taking a sharp curve and plunged off a bridge, killing a visiting politician from a foreign country - the same country that the current mayor had lived in and fled from. Alex made the educated guess that Yassen was behind this. A well-aimed bullet to the back tire was all it would require.

Afterwards, he continued to keep tabs on the assassin's whereabouts. Keeping track of a top-tier assassin was not easy - if it was, Yassen wouldn't have made it this long. But Alex had connections, and while Yassen himself was hard to follow, his kills were a little easier. He might not know where Yassen _was_, but he could figure out where he had been. Yassen was world-class, after all. Perfectly executed, high profile hits tended to come up on the radar of agencies like MI6.

Little hints over the phone allowed Alex to get a kind of picture of Yassen's travelling pattern - which was of course perfectly random, even to a trained eye.

Then, early last week he had got wind of a high profile assassination just outside Moscow. That is the reason he took this mission, if he was being honest. He had tracked Yassen to Russia, knew that the man had a house in Moscow, and thought that they might cross paths.

It had seemed like a long shot, running into the man by chance, but Alex was relying on their past history of doing just that. It had worked.

Now he is here, stalling while he tries to figure out how to explain to this man that he had been sent to infiltrate a child prostitution ring. Maybe he and Yassen weren't exactly friends, but they have some kind of connection. Yassen had developed something of a protective streak when it came to Alex's missions, and he certainly won't be happy about this latest one.

"I was undercover," he finally answers.

Yassen's lips turn down at the corners, recognizing the deflection for what it was. "I gathered as much. Doing what?"

Alex considers lying, but knows he would never get away with it. Yassen is a master of deception.

"I was… infiltrating the youth working class?" He tries his best to make it sound not as bad, but knows that Yassen will see right through him.

"Prostitution?"

Alex nods - not quite shamefully, but close enough.

"So, you whore yourself out for MI6 now?" Yassen asks, not pulling any punches.

Alex flinches at the crass words. "No!" He answers automatically.

Yassen gives him a disbelieving look, and Alex continues. "Well, yes. Sometimes."

"And was the mission… a success?" The underlying tone in Yassen's words makes him wince.

"Yes," Alex answered. "And certain people are rather annoyed with me at the moment."

"Hence why you've been living on the streets for…" Yassen casts a critical eye over him, "five days now?"

Spot on. Alex nods sharply, once.

"How will you know when MI6 are here to retrieve you?"

Alex holds his hand up, displaying a plain brass ring around his fourth finger. "It'll vibrate when my contact is at the meeting point."

Yassen nods, thinking. "Come with me."

"Where to this time?"

"I have a house on the edge of town, near the airport," Yassen explains.

"I know."

Yassen gives him a look. "You can wait there for MI6 to contact you."

"Okay."

And there is that look again. Maybe Yassen had expected him to put up a fight? But he had learned a long time ago that there was little point in fighting Yassen.


	2. Little Bird

**Summary:** Dead does not always mean dead, Alex has learned. And for that, he is thankful.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

**—2—**

Timeline: Before _Living Nightmare_

_A bird with a broken wing doesn't know it is broken. It knows it is hurting, yes, that something is wrong, but it doesn't understand what it means to be broken._

_It will flap its wings, jump and try to take flight, and will be confused when it can't. It will believe itself capable of everything it used to be - the sky will call to it, because the sky is all it knows._

_Maybe the bird can be saved, can be mended. Or maybe it will die on the unfamiliar ground._

_Maybe it needs someone to save it._

* * *

The house was dark and musty, stale scent in the air proving that the house had been unused for days now. Alex doesn't bother flicking on the lights, nor does he take the time to crack a window so as to chase away the smell of abandonment.

No. Instead he makes a beeline for the staircase. Even in the dim lighting, Alex's footing is sure. He knows every inch of this house inside and out. Backwards and forwards.

He skips over the creaky step, and bypasses the loose board in the corridor. Upon reaching his bedroom door, he pushes it open, entering his childhood room. Everything is just as he left it - plus a thin veneer of dust that had settled while he had been away.

Alex flops gratefully onto his bed, the familiar sheets a comforting feeling. Old and worn, but soft. He pulls out his cell phone, navigating to the surveillance detecting app. (Not the kind of thing you would find in a normal boy's phone.)

A thorough sweep makes it clear that no one has tampered with his room - Alex wouldn't have been surprised if MI6 had snuck some sneaky surveillance into the house while he was away. Not this time, it would seem.

Satisfied that he is well and truly alone, he goes to his contacts where a new number awaits him. A string of seemingly random digits, longer than any phone number Alex had ever seen. No distinguishable area code - nothing distinctive at all.

Yassen Gregorovich. It has to be.

Alex hesitates for just a moment, thumb hovering over the call button. He is reluctant to call the assassin out of the blue, Yassen surely won't answer, and leaving a message probably isn't smart. His thumb twitches, and Alex hits the icon that will take him to his text messages.

He types out a quick message, just a few words: Glad to hear you're alive.

Nothing incriminating, but hopefully enough for Yassen to know it is him.

And he waits, staring at the screen, eyes glazing over as he lingers. He hoped for a rapid reply, but as his battery percentage dips into single digits, the likelihood of an immediate answer drops as well. Reluctantly, he plugs his phone into the outlet, placing it face down on his bedside table. Exhausted from his mission, he curls up under the covers, barely pausing to strip off his travel clothes.

His sleep is fitful, he lays on the edge of deep sleep and wakefulness. His dreams full of the sound of his ringtone, and he jolts awake each time, only to see his phone still dark.

Alex spends days on end in a quiet tension, surrounded by his own nervous energy as he waits for a reply.

When it comes, it was a single, impersonal word. Still, Alex can practically hear the assassin's cool voice, even after all this time.

Likewise.

Yassen was glad to hear Alex was alive.

Alex smiles at that, recalling several instances the assassin could be referencing: the sniper incidence outside Royal and General, the panic that had ensued upon finding Julius Griefs body, any number of near-death experiences Alex had been apart of in his time as a spy. Then he frowns, knowing the incident that Yassen most likely means.

His attempted suicide, one month after Cairo.

* * *

He had been with the Pleasures. A nice house in a nice town with a nice school and nice people. Everything was fine - perfect - nice - except for Alex. He was not fine, and was about as far from perfect as he could be. 'Nice' wasn't a word he associated with himself anymore. The second he had touched down in the airport, he had a schedule chock full of meetings with shrinks and doctors and school counsellors and social workers and government agents. Anyone they thought could help.

He wasn't fine, but he had thought he was getting better. A little bit, at least. His night terrors had decreased as his dosage of sleeping medication had increased. His paranoia had faded to something a little more pronounced than watchfulness.

Sure, he took a different route to and from school each day. Sure, he didn't have any friends to speak of after weeks at school. Sure, if he missed a pill he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, if he even managed to get to sleep at all.

But he had thought he was improving. Bit by bit. He was wrong.

On a very particular day in early May, Alex was out late. He hadn't been able to sleep, and had snuck out to walk around. Wandered where his feet took him. He had gone to one of the many piers that littered San Francisco. Had stood on the edge, not really thinking, just letting emotions roll over him in a rare show of complete vulnerability. In the dark of night, alone in the crisp spring air, it was easier to let his walls down. The lapping of waves below him was soothing, lulling him into a kind of trance.

He had looked down at his watch as it crept towards midnight. Had sucked in a painful breath as it struck twelve.

Happy birthday, Jack, he had thought, a lump appearing in his throat. Tears stung the back of his eyes.

The digital numbers had blurred. The ocean spray covered his tears as they fell. He tore his gaze away from the watch, looking out at the ocean instead. Dark and foreboding. Ominous darkness stretching as far as the eye could see.

A smudge of negative space was perched on the horizon - Alex recognized the outline of Alcatraz. He thought about the prisoners that had been kept there. The ones that had tried to escape; jumped island and swam for it. So desperate for freedom that they were willing to brave the cruel ocean elements. Dead and dragged to a premature watery grave.

He remembered getting crushed and dragged down by the Cribber. He remembered the time he had been locked in a sunken boat, slowly running out of air. He even remembered being waterboarded by the CIA. All terrifying moments that Alex had never had the desire to repeat. But then…

He remembered the overwhelming feeling of peace - the bliss - he had experienced at the bottom of the ocean, before Sabina had saved him. The fuzzy image of a woman - his mother, an angel? He hadn't felt that kind of peace again until he'd been shot, bleeding out on the sidewalk. And then the peace had been gone, he hadn't found it again.

Before he had even known what he was doing, the toes of his feet were overhanging the pier. Perched as if he was a diver. Butterflies flew from his stomach up to his chest as he was overcome with the feeling of freefall. He had instinctively taken a deep breath in, just before he crashed into the freezing waves.

The second the black water enveloped him, the cold hit. It sucked the air from his lungs and the energy from his muscles. Any fight or flight that he might have felt frozen in the glacial waters. Alex could not tell if the darkness closing in was the oppressive water, or his own brain losing consciousness.

A coast guard had happened to be passing by in his small rescue boat. He had seen Alex go under. If he hadn't, Alex would have died. As it was, he had swallowed lungfuls of water, and been in the icy ocean long enough to contract a case of hypothermia and pneumonia. A lung infection quickly followed. He had been hospitalized for two weeks before being immediately shipped back to England. Taken out by a government helicopter.

MI6 had been worried he would try again - even after he insisted he was fine, that he hadn't meant to. They had sent him to their own, personal shrinks. At least this time they had the whole story, and they had all come to the same conclusion.

Alex needed to go back into the field.

The other psychiatrists had thought he was scarred from his time with MI6. The truth was, Alex wasn't traumatized. He missed it. He was addicted, and cutting cold turkey was not working out for him.

He had stepped off that pier seeking an adrenaline rush, like his body had become used to. All the paranoia and pain he had brought with him wasn't unfounded. He had enemies. He would never assimilate back into civilian life.

So, three weeks back in England, Mrs. Jones had signed him on as an official agent.

Alex had immediately taken advantage of this to look up his past missions - that old paranoia chiming in. Clicked through the electronic files whenever he got the chance.

_Jack Starbright: Deceased_

_Julius Grief: Deceased_

_Abdul-Aziz Al-Rahim: Deceased_

Major Winston Yu. Julia Rothman. McCain. Cray. Sarov. Nile. Grief. Stellenbosch. Sayle. Grin. Vole. Howell.

All deceased.

_Yassen Gregorovich: Deceased_

That's when Alex had found it. An error.

Two medical records, one for the examination of the body upon recovery, the other for an autopsy. They were inconclusive to what Alex knew to be true.

When Alex had first told the story of what happened on Air Force One, he had been slightly in shock and on pain killers. He had said that Yassen had been shot and bled out, and that is what the preliminary report said as well.

It hadn't mentioned where Yassen had been shot, but the autopsy report did. Shot in the chest, like Alex had later elaborated. In the heart.

That is when Alex had seen the mistake. In the heart. Alex had said Yassen was shot in the chest, he had not said where. He also - obviously - had not told MI6 that Yassen had spoken before he died.

The report had said shot in the heart, instantaneous death.

Alex alone knew it had not been instantaneous. Yassen had spoken to him for perhaps a minute or two before dying of blood loss. Not shot in the heart, just in the chest.

It could have just been a mistake - but Alex was not leaving things to chance. He dug deeper. Rather than hitting rock bottom, he struck a gold mine. Yassen Gregorovich was alive. Had been held prisoner for over six months with several other captive Scorpia assassins, and then made a daring escape, not to be seen again.

Alex had known that he didn't have a chance of tracking Yassen down on his own - if the whole of MI6 couldn't, he never would. But… he thought he might have something that MI6 didn't. A connection.

With Yassen, but also with Scorpia. Alex had read the list of people Yassen had been imprisoned with. Among them, Kai Bexter, who had been an assassin longer than even Yassen (if not to the same caliber). Long enough, in fact, to have been in the same graduating year as Alex's father.

What are the chances?

He had gone to the prison (with a little help from Smithers) and had a quick conversation with him. It hadn't taken him two minutes to convince Bexter that he needed to find Yassen. Though the assassin hadn't had a direct link, he did point Alex to a client. One that he was positive had contacted Yassen on multiple occasions.

Luckily, Alex knew this man as well. Seri Bandar.

He had been next in line for the throne of the small island nation of Bruneili, and had completely abused his status. Bandar had kept a ring of servants, all under the age of eighteen, to keep him amused. He killed off other people who had a claim to the throne for sport.

That is, until an internal coop had him fleeing the country for his life. New name, new identity. The man had settled in Germany, finding work in the political business and quickly gaining the position of mayor to a small city.

MI6 - and indeed, local authorities - had thought Bandar had assimilated rather quickly. Suspiciously so. They wanted to be sure that the man truly was on the up and up.

Ages ago, Alex had been sent in an attempt to tempt the man. See if he was still practicing his old ways. It had been a short mission; Bandar had shown no interest in Alex's advances, and MI6 had been forced to conclude that he wasn't up to anything bad. (Apparently, they had been wrong, if Bandar was employing someone like Yassen.)

Alex had taken a short mission in Germany, spending the last day staking out Bandar's house. At night he had broken in, snuck into the master bedroom, and downloaded the contents of the man's phone onto his own.

Not only had Alex found Yassen's number, but he had also found out what Bandar was up to as well. He was no longer indulging in young courtesans, but was systematically killing off his political competition from his home country.

Anytime a member of Bruneili's government left on a diplomatic mission - which was often, considering they were a newly established democracy of a third world country - their life came to a mysterious end.

After returning to England, Alex had pointed out the mysterious string of deaths to MI6. Bandar was arrested for multiple murder charges not long after.

In the meantime, Alex had texted the long number that he assumed belonged to a certain assassin.

_Glad to hear you're alive._

A response hadn't come for several days. When it did, it was just a single word.

_Likewise_.


	3. Companionship

**Summary:** What had Alex expected? For Yassen to do the washing up with a shotgun?

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

**—3—**

Timeline: Between _The Beauty of a Snowstorm _and _Dreamscape_

_When Alex was little, he had wanted a puppy. What little kid didn't? He had begged Ian for ages - told him he would walk it and feed it and bathe it and everything. Ian had said no, in that special way his uncle had: firmly, and showing no room to budge._

_Looking back, Alex supposed the reason he had wanted a pet was because he was lonely. He had not known it at the time, but his childhood had been a solitary one. He had wanted someone that would be with him, stay with him. Loyalty. He never really got that with Ian - barely seeing him for the holidays, catching a glimpse of him in the middle of a football game only to have to get a ride with Tom after, when Ian inevitably disappeared._

_Loyalty is important, but not something Alex has seen much of as of late. Loyalty in the world of spies is a tricky thing after all._

_In a perfect world, spies are loyal to Queen and Country. People are loyal to their organization, to their ideals, to their partners, to themselves. Alex has learned that the world is far, far from perfect._

_Loyalty can be bought, lost, changed. Even the good guys can't be expected to hold fast._

_Alex himself has never experienced a sense of allegiance towards his job. Queen and Country is a joke to him. MI6 can hardly be trusted. He had switched sides more than once, and thought about it even more._

_But every once in a while, when the planets align and the world speaks its blessing, you can find someone. Someone worth following, with the single minded, simple loyalty of a puppy._

_A companion._

* * *

Yassen leads him through the city as if he is a blind dog - holding onto his wrist like a leash, verbally directing him to go, stop, wait, _good boy_. Alex would have found it annoying if it wasn't so endearing. Yassen _worries _apparently. Alex almost feels like he is being parented.

Eventually, with a lot of wrist tugging and quiet commands, they arrived at a well-placed house on the outskirts of town. Near enough to the airport to allow for a swift escape. Secluded enough to allow for privacy, but with enough neighbours so as to avert suspicion and keep it blended in.

Yassen finally released the hold he had on Alex, allowing him to follow mutely into the house.

Alex had never been to an assassin's house before. A small part of him had been hoping for guns and knives and maps marked in red. Black and white photos of targets with Sharpie ex's cutting through them.

Unfortunately, the house was just that: a house. Not a gun in sight. The only knives Alex saw were in a rack by the cutting board in the kitchen (not that Yassen couldn't be deadly with those if need be, it just wasn't all that exciting.) There were no pictures - not even a false family portrait. All the walls were painted in deftones, the co-ordinated floors in mostly dark woods. Patternless curtains were pulled shut, but the rooms were still well lit after Yassen flicked a switch.

The place could have belonged to anyone. Or no one. It looked like a house that was still on the market. Wiped down of any and all personality, waiting to be sold. Alex was sure that Yassen could wipe all evidence of them being here within a moment's notice.

Yassen pointed wordlessly to a closed door at the start of a hallway, and Alex moved forward to investigate. On the other side was a spotless bathroom; Alex looked down at the days worth of street grime he had built up on himself. Mostly on his clothes, but Alex felt like the dirt had stained his skin and seeped into his bones.

Alex shut the door behind him, stripping his clothing off and dropping them in a pile by the door. Gratefully, he climbed into the shower, letting the hot water chase away the Russian chill that had so completely overtaken him.

He could have stood there all day, steam surrounding him. He had scrubbed his skin raw with soap and put his hair through a wash, rinse and repeat. And repeat.

Eventually, the water started turning cold, and Alex decided it was time to get out. The bathroom mirror was fogged white and the tiles were slippery with condensation. Alex grabbed a fluffy towel and dried himself off. Then he turned to his pile of clothes with a frown, reluctant to put the filthy garb back on.

He sighed, wrapping the towel around his waist and cracking the door open. He peeked his head out, cool air hitting him in the face. Eyes roving quickly, he spotted Yassen through the door that led to the kitchen - cooking? That didn't seem in character, but then, neither did helping out a teenage spy, and Yassen had done that.

"Yassen?" He called. The assassin stepped out of the kitchen, grabbing a bundle of something off the couch. Before Alex could utter another word, the bundle was tossed into his face. He caught it, looking down at the fresh clothes.

"Read my mind," he muttered, disappearing into the bathroom with a slight smile.

The clothing wasn't a perfect fit, but Alex was grateful nonetheless. A black sweater that flopped around his hands, covering them to the fingertips; blue jeans that he had to cinch up with a belt, as well as roll twice at the ankles. They may not have fit properly, but they were comfy and warm and that's all Alex really cared about anyway.

No socks or shoes, Alex noticed, though he guessed he didn't have a reason to leave the house anyway. Besides, the likelihood of Yassen having a pair of shoes in his size was slim to none (and slim just left town.) Anyway, his own boots would be fine when the time came to leave - they were worn out and beginning to lose their waterproof seal, but Alex could live with that.

He ran the towel through his hair one more time before leaving. This time, accompanying the blast of icy air, was the sweet aroma of something cooking. Alex followed his nose to the adjacent kitchen, making himself at home on one of the bar stools that surrounded a central island.

Yassen paid him no heed, busying himself with meal preparation. He whirled gracefully around the kitchen, the embodiment of a hurricane. Alex watched, amused; it seemed Yassen was an expert at everything he did, even menial tasks. Within no time, a plate of food was deposited in front of him along with a bundle of clattering utensils.

Alex barely remembered to say thank you, he was so eager to eat. His British bred manners were thrown to the wind as he dug in - the first proper meal he had enjoyed since being in Russia. Something he hadn't had to scavenge or steal - or buy with stolen money. Now it was Yassen's turn to watch him in amusement as he scarfed his square meal down.

Once he had scraped the plate clean (and considered licking it too, but he hadn't reached that point of indecency yet) he took the dishes to the sink. He didn't see a washing machine, and assumed Yassen did the dishes here by hand - another mundane task that Alex couldn't quite picture the assassin partaking in.

Yet, Yassen was determined to warp his perception of reality. The man appeared at his side, cloth in hand, and set about drying the dishes Alex passed to him.

They worked silently, perfectly in sync, for the few dishes they had created. Alex let Yassen handle putting them away, making a mental note of the proper place for the pots, pans, plates, and utensils for future reference.

Yassen was just leaning over, putting the last of the pots in a lower cupboard. Then he looked up - blue eyes met brown - and for the first time since Alex saw him in the streets, probably the first time since Air Force One, he didn't know where they stood with each other.

Their relationship had always been in the grey area. Still, they had a kind of mutual understanding.

But now… Alex was less confident. It was one thing, messaging or speaking to the assassin over the phone, often separated by continents or oceans. It was a whole other ballgame to be with the assassin, in his home, his territory, in the country that the assassin had once lived as a child. There was something almost intimate about it. Something that threw Alex off-kilter, he felt like he was trespassing.

Yassen, however, seemed to take everything in stride. He rose to his feet, gesturing quietly for Alex to follow him into the living area. Everything the assassin did was in the same calm, collected manner. Alex wished he could attain that kind of self assurance - maybe it came with experience.

In Alex's opinion, there was no one more experienced than Yassen Gregorovich.

In the living room, they sat opposite each other, sinking into plush armchairs on either side of a coffee table. Yassen regarded him the way a child might look upon a magic show: politely interested, a little in awe, but with a degree of confusion, like he couldn't even begin to comprehend what he was seeing in front of him.

Alex guessed he himself was mostly exhibiting the last emotion - confusion. He did his best to cover this up, throwing up a persona of confidence. He tried to give himself a pep talk: he was sitting in the living room of a world-class assassin, the same man that had killed his uncle, tried to kill his friends dad, kidnapped him, tossed him to the bulls (literally), kidnapped his friend, and then got shot for him, only to reappear a year later.

This man, a murderer, kidnapper, antagonist, terrorist.

His friend.

Alex smiled. "It's good to see you again."

"You too."


	4. Run to Ground

**Summary:** Yassen has a peculiar habit of saving Alex's life. Not that Alex is complaining.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**4—**

Timeline: Between _Living Nightmare _and _Games of Chance_

_An object in motion has the tendency to stay in motion, unless acted upon by a large enough force. This is known more commonly as inertia, and we experience it every day._

_Alex's life, if anything, was in motion_

_On the highway, this phenomenon can sink its claws in, so that when you exit, time seems to slow around you. Your body has become accustomed to going fast, and slowing down isn't an option it approves of._

_Any object will resist a change to its velocity. Alex's velocity was high._

_So if Newton was to be believed, he wouldn't be slowing down anytime soon._

_But then, we battle the effects of inertia every day. We come off the highway, the freeway, and we hit the breaks instead of the gas. So then, we have some control over the laws of the universe._

_We may resist change, but that doesn't stop the change from happening._

_Alex spent his life running, full speed ahead, scenery blurring around him. He spent his life going at breakneck speed with no end in sight._

_Doesn't mean an end isn't coming._

_He just needs a large enough force._

* * *

Breath coming fast, filling his lungs to the breaking point before being expelled in a violent gust, mixing with the already wild winds that tore down the streets in a frenzy.

Freezing rain pelted the pavement. Alex tugged his rain slicker closer around his shoulders. Drops of water slid off the glossy fabric, joining their many comrades in rushing down the gutter.

The sound of falling rain echoed in the narrow alleys, accompanied by the louder clap of gunshots. Alex twisted his body, barreling to the left down a backway, trying to distance himself from the brutally loud noises (and the threat of death they carried.)

He ran through the maze of streets - it didn't feel like he was making any progress, but eventually the sound of firearms faded into white noise, just on the peripheral of his hearing. Alex stumbled to a stop, resting a hand on the dark brick wall that encased the alleyway. His breathing was laboured now, coming in harsh pants that seemed louder than any bullet being fired.

The sudden vibration startled him; Alex jumped slightly before feeling embarrassed for being frightened by his own cell phone. He retrieved the object from the depths of his coat, a familiar number encompassing the screen.

Right on time, as always. Yassen was nothing if not punctual.

Alex answered the phone call happily, a smile threatening to overtake, despite the dire situation he had found himself in.

"Hey." He was never quite sure how to start these conversations - especially not when he was in the middle of running for his life.

"Hello, Alex," Came the familiar reply. Yassen sounded amused, as he often did when speaking with Alex. "Is now a good time?"

They arranged these times ahead of date, at the end of each phone call picking the time and day of the next, and who would initiate it. They tried to make it so neither of them were in the middle of a mission (they didn't always succeed, obviously. Sometimes things came up rather unexpectedly.)

Sometimes one of them wasn't able to make the call, or is unable to answer. In this case, the call gets rescheduled for the next day, one hour later.

"Umm," Alex heard the crack of a bullet ricocheting off a stone building, getting closer. Shouting accompanied it. He straightened up and moved down the alley, still keeping his phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, totally. Now is fine."

"Really?" Yassen sounded like he was setting Alex up to be the butt of a joke - like he was aware of something Alex wasn't. "You're not on a mission?"

Alex frowned. They never really told each other when they were on missions - it was obvious when their next call had to be penciled in days or weeks in the future, but they never gave the outright reason. For Yassen to ask if he was on a mission… it was just a little odd.

"Well now," Alex took a right, ducking below a clothes line that had fallen from its perch to whip around in the wind, "I never said that."

"Hmm, well," Yassen continued, "I wouldn't want to distract you. Also, you should probably take the next left onto Ciclista Street. Otherwise you are likely to hit a dead end."

Alex froze in his tracks, glancing around as a sense of paranoia overtook him. "You're here?"

He could hear the sound of pursuit closing in on him; how were they following him through this maze? He wasn't leaving a trail… But then, if Yassen was apart of the group chasing him, Alex didn't doubt the assassin could find him. What would Yassen do if Alex was caught? What would Alex do? He had wanted to see Yassen again, but not if it would lead to a bullet in the brain.

"No, I'm not." The tight feeling in his chest faded. "I'm a few countries away at the moment."

"Then how…?"

"I'm working logistics with a faction of the group you just infiltrated," Yassen answered. "I got notified of a teenage boy breaking out of one of the facilities, the alarm bells sounded when you escaped. I offered to coordinate the team sent to collect you."

Alex knew that Yassen had obtained a minor injury on his last assignment, and that as a result the assassin was working mainly desk jobs for the next couple weeks. It hadn't occurred to Alex that Yassen would end up on the other side of one of his missions.

"Well in that case, can you tell them to back off? Or that I jumped into the canal or something?" He kept jogging in a winding path, no real destination in mind, just _away _from the angry mob that was closing in with alarming speed. He saw the street sign that marked Ciclista Street and turned left.

"'Fraid not, Alex," Yassen said, false regret lacing his voice. "I can give you some advice, though."

"Mhmm," Alex hummed, starting to fall into a bad mood. "Wouldn't want to put you out."

"Lose your jacket."

Alex paused in confusion, then a shout from behind had him jolting back into action. He looked around at the low fog and the steady drizzle of rain. It wasn't summer yet, not here. His jacket was doing the majority of the work in keeping him warm. Along with the exertion of running.

"My jacket?" He asked, sure that he had misheard. Yassen wouldn't ask him to run around the icy streets in a t-shirt, would he?

"Yes, your jacket." Dang, Alex had heard him correctly. "They put a tracker in it."

Alex swore vehemently, hearing Yassen chuckle at his reaction. He almost dropped his phone in his haste to strip his outerwear off. He had reached the end of Ciclista Street, a T section with a canal across from him; Alex tossed the jacket (a Smithers' special, lightweight and bulletproof with thermal heating and stealth technology) into the swift waters. The black material raced downstream, and Alex took off in the other direction. Hopefully they really would think he had dove into the canal.

"Any other bright ideas?" Alex asked, more than a little sarcastic.

"Well, looking at these security cameras, it appears someone left their car running while they went into a bank. Left here. You have maybe a few minutes before the owner returns."

Alex went left, feet almost sliding out from under him. Halfway up the street he spotted a silver car pulled against the curb with plumes of smoke exiting the exhaust pipe. The building it was parked in front of read in thin gold cursive _Banca comunale_: a bank. Alex just _loved _banks. Nothing ever went wrong in a bank.

Alex dove into the driver's seat, shifting gear into drive. He spun a tight U-turn and gunned it down the street. His phone automatically connected to the cars bluetooth, which Alex found helpful, and he tossed his cell into the passenger seat.

Now, technically, Alex didn't have his license. With everything he did, it had never seemed like a priority. He had never had the time. That said, Alex _did _know how to drive. He had received lessons from Ian (illegal.) He had done this before, borrowing a vehicle on other missions.

However, one problem he had never encountered was-

"Yassen!" He shouted into the empty vehicle, "Where are the fog lights on this thing?"

Yassen laughed through the bluetooth speakers before calmly telling him to turn the dial on his left. Alex did so (slightly less calm than Yassen was) and a beam of light showed him the way through the dense blanket of mist.

Alex sighed in relief and navigated his way south. He was pretty sure that's where the British Embassy was - he figured that was a good goal.

"You are the worst, you know," Alex stated once his heart rate had settled.

"I just saved your life," Yassen reminded him.

Alex frowned. Okay, point, but Alex was still annoyed. He neglected to answer the assassin, earning him another laugh through the speakers.

Since when did assassin's laugh so much?

—

Bored to tears, that is how Alex felt.

He was lying in a white room on a white bed covered in white sheets staring up at a white ceiling - everything as boring and monotonous and _blank _as a sheet of paper.

He was in hospital - no surprise there - with a case of mild hypothermia - again, not a shocker. He was supposed to be released yesterday, but they had kept him for 'observation'. Alex knew that was MI6 code for 'keeping an eye on him because he was an idiot'.

MI6 had not been too impressed with the ruckus he caused on his mission - and Alex had even neglected to tell them how much more of a mess it could have been if Yassen had not interfered. Naturally, Alex had neglected to tell them about Yassen's involvement at all.

Anyway, now Alex was bedridden and just about on his last straw of patience. He was flicking through television shows on mute, not finding anything that was the slightest bit interesting.

Then his phone rang - the familiar rattling noise of the vibrations on the table.

Alex answered without a second glance, already knowing who it would be. Punctual, as always.

"Hey," he said, turning up the volume on the tele. "I'm in hospital because of you, jerk."

A burst of laughter: Alex was beginning to enjoy that sound. He was getting used to hearing it more and more.

"A little hypothermia never hurt anybody."

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling my doctors. They don't seem to agree." Alex shifted up in bed, restless. He had been looking forward to speaking with Yassen since he had been in hospital. It was a welcome distraction from the infinite boredom.

"You know," Alex continued, "it's a little irritating that you always know where I am, but I have no idea where you are."

"And maybe one day that will change, little one" Yassen spoke with the air of someone explaining something he had already explained before - which was true of course, "but not now."

"When?"

"Not now."

"You are _impossible_." That came out more childish than he had wanted, but then, he was a child.

"Impossible to find, yes."

Alex snorted. First laughter, now jokes? These conversations got wilder by the minute.

Alex heard recognizable footsteps in the hallway. He was disinclined to cut their talk short, but…

"My nurse is coming, I have to go."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Obviously, Yassen was not eager to hang up.

"Okay," Came the reply. "Get better, call me tomorrow?"

Alex smiled, already counting the minutes down until their next talk. "You got it, noon?"

"Perfect."

Alex hung up and quickly cleared his call history. A young guy in scrubs entered the room with the fresh-faced look of someone just starting their shift. Alex made a show of turning the television off, he smiled big at his nurse, but his mind was elsewhere.

* * *

The next day, Alex was finally home. He had picked up a take away after being released from the hospital, and was now munching as he wandered aimlessly around the house. The clock slowly ticked towards twelve.

Then it struck - there were no pumpkins or ponies or talking mice, but then it was noon, not midnight. He dialled the number, his fingers acting mostly on muscle memory.

It rang once, twice.

"_Hello Alex_." Alex frowned at the accent, one he wasn't used to hearing with this voice. "_How are you_?"

It took Alex a second to realize Yassen was speaking German - a second longer to realize the significance of this. _German_, Alex thought, _that's interesting_.


	5. Dreamscape

**Summary:** Is everything fine? No, not really. Is Alex going to ask for help? Also no.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**5—**

Timeline: Between _Companionship _and _Up Up and Away_

_A landscape with the strange or mysterious characteristic of dreams. The silver lighting and the fuzzy edges. The otherworldly quality, like you are walking through clouds, your feet never quite finding the ground._

_Alex had never had much luck with dreams - couldn't even remember the last dream he had had that wasn't dark and sinister, full of twisting corridors and the smell of blood. The sounds of gunshots and screaming. The bitter taste of bile in his throat._

_But this… this felt like the dreams of old. Or, more accurately, the dreams of young. The dreams of a young Alex, a child still full of wonder and hope. Innocent dreams._

_Alex wished he still had a claim to innocence._

_But he didn't, not here, not even in his sleep. But perhaps, if sleep and wake both plotted against him, he could instead find something in between._

_A daydream._

_Soft and sweet. Controllable. Many of the things Alex had not experienced in ages._

_And if it all had to fade away when Alex opened his eyes, well, it was nice while it lasted. He could always take the dream, place it gently in a jar, safe and preserved for when he needed it next._

_Yes, Alex thought living in a daydream sounded pretty good right now._

* * *

Alex was sitting cross-legged on a bed - a _bed_, which he hadn't had in days. He had spent his time on the streets huddled in back alleys or sprawled amidst the many other homeless kids in an abandoned shelter, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell and hoping not to catch an illness.

Even before that, he hadn't really had a bed, per se. Not one for sleeping, anyway.

Alex sucked in air sharply. "That _stings_," he gave Yassen an admonishing look.

Yassen looked at him with a distinct lack of repentance, dabbing one of the thin cuts on Alex's arm pointedly with the alcohol dipped cotton swab. Alex bit back any scathing remarks that came to mind, letting Yassen do his work.

His knuckles were scratched and his knees scraped. He had minor cuts up and down his arms and legs. Usually, this wouldn't be cause for concern. After days on the filthy streets however, Yassen wanted to prevent any possible infection.

"Maybe this will teach you to be a little more careful on your missions." Yassen said the word 'missions' like it was laced in poison.

"Doubtful." He'd had worse - he never seemed to learn.

Yassen rolled his eyes but didn't grace him with an answer. The last few cuts were efficiently disinfected. With a note of finality, Yassen tossed the cotton swab in the bin.

"There," Yassen stated, leaning back, "Not much I can do about the bruises, but at least your scrapes are clean."

Yassen gave him a slightly miffed look - like Alex had gone and gotten beat up on purpose. Which was not an entirely unfair assessment. Alex had, after all, known the details of this mission. Had known the likelihood of injury, and accepted anyway.

Alex sank back into the pillows with a distinct sigh of relief, running a hand over his freshly cleaned and bandaged cuts. He probed one of the wraps on his arm, feeling the stitches that held him together underneath. Yassen gave him a pointed glare and he stopped fidgeting.

The man shifted back towards the end of the bed, casually kicking a leg up as he lent against the footboard. Alex regarded Yassen curiously - it still surprised him to be so close to the man, and that Yassen was so calm about it. Alex almost envied the ease with which Yassen conducted himself.

"Any other… injuries I should be aware of?" Alex didn't miss the quick darting of blue eyes downwards. He resisted the urge to tell Yassen that his eyes were up here.

"I'm fine, Yassen," Alex rolled his eyes, but the reminder had him shifting uncomfortably.

Yassen gave him another pointed look, and Alex tried not to look so tense.

"Honestly," he said again, "I'm fine. Scouts honour."

Yassen nodded, standing up. The man paused for a moment, looking down at where Alex sat. The expression on his face was unreadable. At first, Alex thought he would say nothing. Then:

"I want you to be safe, Alex," Yassen told him. "I've always wanted that, so…"

He trailed off, and Alex found it difficult to fill in the blanks. Of course Yassen wanted him safe - the man had told him again and again to leave MI6. Again and again.

And again and again, Alex answered the same.

He smiled and nodded. "I know," he said quietly. "I appreciate it, Yassen, all of it. I promise, I'm fine. It's all fine."

Yassen nodded, having said his piece. It hadn't had the desired result, but Yassen had done his best.

"You must be tired. You can sleep here," Yassen told him, once again all business. "Call me if you need me."

Alex nodded, knowing in his heart that he wouldn't be disturbing Yassen, but appreciating the thought anyway.

Yassen seemed aware of what he was thinking. "Really, Alex. Call if you need me. I'm just down the hall."

Again Alex nodded, trying to add a little more conviction to the motion. Yassen didn't seem convinced, but left the room anyway. He pointedly hit the light switch on the way out, not at all subtle in his telling Alex to sleep.

He just as pointedly left the door ajar, driving home one more time the notion that Alex could go to Yassen if he needed him.

Alex knew he wouldn't.

* * *

Alex woke the way he usually did after a mission - mouth dry, pulse racing, adrenaline rushing. Sitting straight up in bed, shaking hands reaching for weapons that weren't there. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself.

The air felt sharp and cold in his throat, and Alex felt a rasping cough work its way up. Blindly, he crawled out of the unfamiliar blankets. His feet hit cool floor, and he worked his way towards the crack of light that signified the doorway.

He remembered the door creaking slightly when Yassen had used it, and pushed it open slowly. He crept into the hall, which was dimly lit from the window right next to him. He turned away from the glass displaying the nighttime landscape and looked down the dark corridor.

The room he was residing in was at the back end of a hall. To get to the kitchen, he would need to pass by the other bedroom - the one Yassen was currently sleeping in. Alex didn't fancy the idea of surprising the assassin so late at night.

Shifting into 'spy mode' as Tom had once called it, he snuck down the hall, avoiding all the creaky boards he had made note of earlier. He successfully made it to the kitchen, finding a glass easily with the knowledge he had filed away before.

The tap squeaked in protest, making Alex wince. He quickly filled his glass to the brim and shut the noisy appliance off. That done - and feeling quite proud of his sneaking - he turned and leaned his back against the counter. The glass was halfway to his lips when he froze.

And the glass was halfway to the floor before he unfroze, dropping and catching the falling object before it could shatter all over the kitchen floor.

"_Shit,_" He said, voice still hoarse. He managed not to spill his drink all over himself, though half of it sloshed onto the floor. He took a breath to compose himself before looking up to glare at the assassin that had miraculously appeared from the hallway.

"Someone should really put a bell on you," He told the man.

Yassen raised an eyebrow in amusement. "And I suppose you will be the one to do that?"

"It's a possibility." He glared at Yassen a moment longer, but was honestly too tired and sleep muddled to bother acting too annoyed. He dropped it as he remembered his manners. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

Yassen shook his head. "You didn't, I was already awake."

Alex nodded slightly, unsure if he was supposed to question why, or just leave it as a mystery. He decided that the latter was probably the safe option, and took a seat at the kitchen island. He took a few sips of his water, half to stall for time, half because he was literally dying of thirst.

Eventually, though, his natural curiosity overtook him. "Why are you up?"

"I don't usually sleep much, rarely for an entire night."

Alex bit his lip to stop himself from saying _same here_. He guessed that the reasons he didn't sleep differed greatly from the reasons Yassen didn't sleep.

From the look on Yassen's face, Alex guessed that the assassin knew his line of thinking - and knew exactly why he would be up in the middle of the night. Furthermore, Yassen wasn't afraid to approach the topic.

"Nightmares?" Yassen asked him.

Now, Yassen was aware of his nightmares - they had come up once or twice during their brief phone calls. It had always felt safe, being able to talk about them with someone that understood and - more importantly - wouldn't judge. It also helped that he was talking to someone that wasn't necessarily in his life. It was easier to talk to dead space when on the phone, rather than in person.

"Nothing I can't handle," Alex told him, dipping his forefinger into his water and running it over the rim of his glass. A high pitched tone overtook the kitchen.

"Yes. I'm sure," Yassen replied. Alex thought there should be some sarcasm in that statement, but there was none.

Yassen sat across from him, silent for a moment. The man seemed to be deducing how far he could push Alex just now. Apparently, a little farther.

"I want you to tell me, Alex," Yassen finally asked. "About your mission."

Alex frowned, his finger coming to a standstill on his makeshift instrument, then tried to cover it with a laugh and a smirk.

"Not much to tell, really," he lied through his teeth.

Yassen called him on it easily, pushing him towards the truth. Alex still hesitated. Yassen worried - he didn't like Alex being in danger, despite the jokes the two of them often made.

Certainly, he didn't like the implications of the mission Alex had taken to get here: to get to Russia, to get even the _slimmest shot_ at finally seeing Yassen. Alex knew that the man would not appreciate everything Alex had done - everything that had been done to Alex - for him.

Yassen would feel guilty, thinking about what Alex had done for him. Done just to see him. Alex wanted to spare him that.

He tried to convey to Yassen in just a look how much he _did not _want to talk about it. In response, the man's ice-chip eyes softened slightly. Alex thought for a second he would get away with his silence.

"Fine," Yassen said, looking Alex up and down. Then he continued, "If you don't want to tell me about your mission, tell me about your nightmare."

Which of course was the exact same thing. Yassen knew it too, the bastard.


	6. Games of Chance

**Summary:** None of Alex's missions ever turn out the way they are supposed to.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**6—**

Timeline: Between _Run to Ground _and _The Beauty of a Snowstorm_

_Many people attributed Alex's success to luck. To some level, Alex agreed. He could admit to catching a lucky break here and there. Especially at the beginning of Alex's career._

_But now, Alex was a skilled operative. Skilled. You can only get so far in this world relying on fate and destiny and karma and whatever else. _

_The game they played was less like dice and more like poker. Sure, there were things that were out of control: the cut of the deck, the deal of the cards. But more so there was skill._

_There was knowing your opponent, knowing yourself. Alex had gotten rather good at poker._

* * *

Alex was really starting to regret signing on for this mission. He didn't often work with Russia, the country didn't always have the best relations with others, but he had thought the possible rewards worth stepping out of his comfort zone.

But now? He was cold, hungry, beat up, and surrounded by people in the exact same state. Looking around the grime filled room at the starving, abused children, Alex couldn't help having a low moral.

But for the same reasons that Alex wished he _hadn't _taken the mission, he was glad that he had. These were the necessities of the job: the things Alex needed to do for his mission. Anyway, Alex himself only had to endure the abuse for a few weeks. These kids? This was their life. Alex could help with that.

Besides, he had an added incentive for being in Russia - as hopeless and silly as it seemed now. He knew he should be past chasing ghosts and digging up old memories, but apparently not.

Alex sighed, biting his lip and shifting on the rock hard ground. It was painful to sit, but no one was standing and Alex didn't want to stand out.

The single door creaked open at the front of the room. The kids - who already huddled as far away as humanly possible - pushed against each other to move away.

Alex mimicked them, but made a point to look _just _a little more visible than the rest. He wouldn't get anything done sitting here on his aching arse: The man that entered zeroed in on him, picking him as the victim.

Without a word - most of the kids here didn't speak anyway, whether or not they knew how - he was dragged by the scruff of his neck to his feet. With no concession to his smaller size or step, the man dragged him into the corridor.

He tried to look suitably scared whilst also taking in his surroundings. He scanned faces, doing his best to commit them to memory: match the faces to the files he had studied. Sort them into customers and traffickers. Who was a threat, who wasn't. Who did the Russians _absolutely _want to bring in, and who were just bonuses.

There were five faces he was searching for in particular - the leaders. Once he had visually confirmed all five presences, Alex could call the Special Ops Forces to clean house.

So far he had four out of five - a decent score. Alex had gotten lucky, he had thought it would take longer. One, the man that had picked Alex off the streets. The leader of… recruitment, he called it.

Another, a woman that had stripped Alex down and washed him in ice cold water. She was high up in the organization, maybe even the highest. She definitely knew the most about recruitment and all the customers. All new recruits went through her; got sorted and sent to their designated rooms. She made sure all their patrons got exactly what they were looking for.

The third worked closely with the Woman - he was a drug dealer. The Woman sent the more difficult recruits to him for a heavy dose of whatever would keep them complacent. Plus a lot of the customers enjoyed a little recreational drug use. Alex had met the Dealer quickly enough - and then made a point of never meeting him again.

One man Alex had met yesterday - a high up Russian politician that was a regular customer. In exchange, the man protected the brothel from law enforcement. This man had been the main contributor to Alex's bumps and bruises.

These were the people that the Russian covert operations wanted in custody. They had connections to important parts of the criminal underworld that the government wanted under wraps. Or at least, wanted more information without having to get in the way of the Mafia.

One more was all he needed. And he was in luck.

A door was opened, and he was shoved in. Alex stumbled on unsteady feet, nearly falling flat on his face. When he regained his balance, it was to find himself in a room larger than any of the others he had seen. A king sized bed sat in the center, ominously.

A man stood there, the General, he was called, though he was General of nothing - Alex recognized him from the files. He was top tier, one of the men that had started this particular brothel, in fact. This man had ties to dozens of other prostitution rings across Russia. Bringing him down would be _huge_.

The second Alex saw him, he signalled the Russian authorities. Simple as pressing a small microchip embedded under his nail. It sent a jolt of discomfort up his nerves, but Alex played it off well enough.

He had been warned that there would be a delay. The armed force could not gather too close to the brothel, could not look like they were gathering at all if they didn't want to attract the attention of the Mafia. After the signal, Alex would be on his own for a while yet.

He had been told to simply blend in. Play the part until backup arrived. Easier said than done, but still, Alex managed. He held his tongue and fought not to flee as the other man in the room advanced. Held his tongue and fought not to flee for an hour onwards.

God. The things he had to do.

Afterwards - beaten down and dejected - Alex had been discarded on the bedroom floor while the General lounged lazily on the bed - high as a kite. Alex had reclaimed his clothes and boots. He now sat fully (if haphazardly) dressed in the corner, leaning against the wall.

When the sound of pounding footsteps in the hallway started, Alex felt unbelievably relieved. Then a man had rushed in, panic on his face, and told the General that they were under assault.

They spoke in English now, assuming that Alex would not be able to understand. Half the kids here barely understood Russian, let alone anything else.

His relief faded when the General decided to take action - apparently he had a few tricks up his sleeve. A few defence systems that the government had been unaware of. The General pulled a gun and told his lackey to 'dispose of all evidence'. Alex knew what that meant.

He was out of there before the General could even flick off the safety. There had been little he could do for the other kids, nothing more than kicking the door down as he sprinted past and scream at them to run. _идти_.

A series of feet pounded after him, mostly unsteady, accompanied with whimpers and the sound of bodies banging against the floor or walls - Alex hoped it was enough. At least he would avoid a massacre. Gunshots sounded, the sound of feet quickened.

Luckily, the Russian forces had managed to achieve a foothold, despite the General's unpredicted resistance. Still, Alex couldn't possibly meet the extraction team as planned - it was a war zone. Instead, he merged with the crowd of running kids and teens and bled into the streets.

Quickly, he was separated from the other refugees. With so many kids lining the roads, it was easy to blend. Alex ran down the twisted, slick streets until his lungs burned - both from the sudden cold, as well as the unexpected exertion.

He had crumpled to the floor against a red brick wall. The rocky side road bit at him, as did the frosty air.

Alex knew the protocol for missions gone wrong. Hide, keep your head low. Get in contact with your mission handler and await further instructions. That was always the best course of action.

Unfortunately, aside from the single-use chip under his nail, Alex had no way of contacting the Russian forces he had worked with. It was best, now, to avoid the brothel he had been held in, so it was unlikely he would bump into a fellow agent.

He couldn't contact the team he was with, but he could contact his usual team. MI6.

If Alex had been on an MI6 sanctioned mission, they would have given him plenty of ways to keep in contact. As it was, Alex had branched out. Still, he had one piece of rather sophisticated technology at his disposal (thanks Smithers).

Alex was usually loath to ask '6 for help - despite being on better terms than originally. Still, he saw few other viable options.

That decided, he pulled the thin cord from around his neck. It looked like the kind of cheap necklace that someone on the street might have on them, and it held a plain brass ring that didn't look to be anything special.

Looks could be deceiving. This was the one gadget that he always kept on him - MI6's version of a panic button. It was only to be used in emergencies, but Alex thought this counted.

The refined gadget was equipped with a speaker and a microphone - a direct line to Mrs. Jones' and Smithers' phone, any hour of the day or night.

It only took seconds for a reply.

Longer, though, to explain his situation and express his desire for extraction. He tried to be subtle, talking into his hand, but still, the few people that passed him on the side road mostly avoided him like he was crazy.

Jones told him that a team could have him out soon, and that he should keep a low profile until they got there. She would speak to his current mission handler and arrange for some kind of extraction. Alex was grateful.

He was also a little disappointed. He had come to Russia for a reason - beyond the obvious - and he was sad that it had borne no fruit.

Sad, but not surprised. It had been a long shot, he knew.

What had been the chance of running into Yassen Gregorovich, even here in his home territory?

Alex had been silly to hope.


	7. Take a Shot, Any Kind Will Do

**Summary:** Home sweet home is not very sweet when bitter worry plagues Alex day and night.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

**—7—**

Timeline: Between _Up Up and Away _and _From Russia With Love_

_His life as a spy was like cold water: hard to get into, even harder to stay. Eventually, though, you adapted, and getting out seemed the hardest thing in the world. So you stayed. Stayed until your lips turned blue and your shivers faded away. Stayed until the ice and trauma inevitably killed you - dead in the water with dry land within reach._

_Life with Yassen was like drinking, the few experiences Alex had had with it. It starts off slow, a cup in hand leisurely being drained. Then it sped up, faster and faster until before you know it you're at the bottom of your bottle and your head is spinning._

_And then there was a convergence, when one life meets another, which is all well and good. But with every action comes an equal and opposite reaction. With every convergence comes a divergence, a law that Alex was beginning to learn. Again, more physics. He had never gotten the benefit of an education in physics, but this felt more like chemistry anyway._

_Explosive. Reactive. On fire._

_That point where you realize the feeling can't stay, that it's leaving, that you must go as well. Maybe another drink was in order, to keep drinking, to coax that feeling back. One more shot - of anything._

_But the bartender cut you off, the bar is closing; you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here._

_Alex didn't know what the normal, the typical reaction might be. He only knew what his was. The stepping stone between one life and the other was small, and Alex hadn't been prepared to take it._

_Had drunkenly stumbled away from the safety of the bottle. Placed a misstep on the stone, smoothed from the river and ready to wash him away. Indeed, a quickstep found Alex falling, plunging into the swift, unforgiving river._

_Coldwater surrounding him, rising up above his head. Knocking the breath out of him and knocking him around until he didn't know where was up, where was down, where was Yassen?_

_The cold shocked his system, sobering his muddled mind, and dragging him downstream. All the way back to square one._

_Alex went back to London. Russia fading into the distance, watched through a bulletproof panel of glass from hundreds of feet in the air. Withering, wilting, washing away. Meanwhile, Alex was twisting, turning, tumbling down._

_By the time he stepped off the plane back on English soil, Russia felt more like a dream than a memory: and not all dreams can be chased._

_Instead, Alex took a breath, held it, and braced himself for the cold._

* * *

Alex was too warm. He never thought he would say that, sitting on the stoop in the London rain. Miserable drizzle all around him, pooling into potholes and running in rivulets down the gutter.

Rainwater slipped down the back of his neck. Icy, but not biting. Not like Russia.

He was sitting there, waiting. What he was waiting for was unknown, even to him, but it felt as if he was waiting for _something_. Someone. Like he was living in limbo.

He had taken to wandering the streets since he had been back. His house felt too empty - foreign, despite the fact that he had lived there most of his life. The streets felt different as well. The crowds and the narrow alleys were familiar, but the people, the shops, the signs, it was all different.

He was acclimatizing poorly back into life in England. Usually, he was an expert at adapting. This time was different.

He found himself thinking of Russia as he walked throughout London. The harsh weather that even England in all its gloom couldn't hold a candle to. The winter that Alex had gotten so used to that he felt warm even now, sitting on the heat-leeching ground in nothing more than jeans, a thin rain jacket on top of a t-shirt, and runners through which the water was soaking his socks.

He missed Russia. He missed the cold. He missed the crowds that required constant vigilance. He missed solid snowflakes and the lack of slush.

He missed Yassen.

That was the heart of it, Alex could admit. He missed Yassen, missed living with him, talking with him, seeing him every day without fail. It had not taken him long to fall into the pattern - the routine. Like a gateway drug, slowly at first until he reached the point that he could barely stand life without him.

It was dull now, boring. No mission or world catastrophe could compare. No adrenaline rush could replace the residence Yassen had taken up in his life.

And nothing - no matter what he tried - could distract him from the constant worry.

It had been nearly a month now, since Alex had left. A month since he had spoken with Yassen. No phone calls, texts, emails, letters, smoke signals. It wasn't terribly unusual, but with the way things had ended…

He worried.

And tomorrow, he would leave. The mission was apparently top secret. So secret, in fact, that not even the agents involved knew the full story. Who knew how long he would be gone - who knew, even, where he was going. MI6, of course, but no one else. Not Alex, certainly not Yassen.

Alex worried that he had lost Yassen forever - and he had no one to blame but himself.

* * *

He was dripping on the hardwood floor. Ian would have had a fit.

Alex kicked off his sodden sneakers, toeing his socks off as well. He crossed the house barefoot, taking the steps two at a time. He stripped off his rain slicker, tossing the wet article onto his bed. He wouldn't be sleeping there tonight anyway.

MI6 had finally called, giving him the okay to head to the airstrip. It was usually used for the SAS - Special Air Service and all - but the Sergeant had allowed '6 to borrow it.

Alex suspected the man had a bit of a soft spot for him, after all he had been through. Not that anyone in the SAS would confirm his suspicion - that would be a one-way ticket to getting binned.

Alex grabbed his go-bag, not bothering with anything more. He didn't know where he was going, and wouldn't be told until he had reached cruising altitude. Therefore, MI6 would provide anything specialized he might need on the flight.

Better than in-flight entertainment was conversing with Smithers over a live feed, getting the gist of his new and improved gadgets.

Tossing on a new pair of socks and some beat-up combat boots (the same he had worn in Russia, not that he was thinking about it) he carried his bag downstairs.

He snatched his car keys from the dish by the front door, running jacketless through the rain to his car. He shook water droplets from his hair, feeling a little bad for getting the upholstery wet. Then again, the car was another Smithers special (a birthday gift - how sweet) so Alex was willing to bet it could handle a little water.

He started the car with a push of a button - engine turning over a split second after the car had read his fingerprint. He calmly said the coordinates of the SAS airstrip and kicked back to enjoy the automatic ride.

It was a hell of a lot easier to let the tech navigate, considering the typical London traffic.

Alex tossed his bag into the back seat, reclining backwards to relax. Despite the rain and clouds, Alex turned on the A/C. He fell asleep to a cool breeze, and he dreamed of Russia. Snow and ice and shattered glass.

* * *

His eyelids were drooping, begging him to give them some respite. A little rest. Just a minute.

Instead, he resisted. Held his eyes steadfastly open. Clenched his hands, digging his nails into the palms to keep him awake and at attention.

It was still dark out, but that could be explained away by the impending storm clouds. Really, he had no idea how long he had been standing out here. The storm had delayed his plane for hours. Alex had been standing alone on the airstrip, bag in hand, exhausted, this entire time.

The hours alone had given him time to think. So naturally, his thoughts drifted where they always did: a quaint little house in Russia.

This mission would be a long one - no one had said as much, but years of experience and intuition told Alex as much. He would be away for a while, and Yassen wouldn't be able to contact him.

He _still _had not heard from the man. A month wasn't a long time for people in their profession - spies could go undercover for months or years at a time. A short mission was classified by weeks, not days. Yet this one month was the longest Alex had ever experienced.

It took all his willpower not to take a flight straight back to Moscow. All his willpower not to hijack the plane that was now _finally _within sight, and take off.

Instead, he waited - as he had been doing for hours (for days, weeks, a month.) The plane commenced touchdown, rolling to a stop not far from him. The wind buffeted him. He pushed down his worries about Yassen, gripped his bag tight, and boarded the plane.

It was empty aside from him, not even a pilot (technology these days, honestly.) He took a window seat, plopping his duffel bag in the seat next to him. It was a private plane, so he didn't bother with seat belts at all.

As the plane rolled slowly away, Alex took a final look at his cellphone. Once he was up in the air that was it - no contact until he was back on English soil. No chance, not even the slightest, of speaking with Yassen.

His phone stayed blank. Alex sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes properly for the first time in hours.

_Ping_.

Brown eyes snapped open, snapped down. His phone had lit up in his hand.

_Have a safe flight._

His breath caught. Alex looked out the window to his side. Blue eyes met brown, a hand raised in farewell as the wheels left the ground.


	8. Up Up and Away

**Summary:** Alex doesn't listen to anyone - but he listens to Yassen.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**8—**

Timeline: Between _Dreamscape _and _Take a Shot, Any Kind Will Do_

_One second is all it takes to change a life forever. A bullet can silence a beating heart in an instant. One moment alive, bright, hopeful, the next a corpse._

_That is what Alex believed for a long time. It only takes one second to send your life into a tailspin, or to end it all together. Now… Alex had begun to question his theory._

_A bullet can kill you in a second, yes, but there is more to it than that. Firing the bullet, the flight path towards you. The time it takes to raise the gun, to take aim._

_Furthermore, the bullet won't kill you of its own accord. A gun is neither good nor evil, it is a tool to be used. The person - perhaps neither good nor evil either, but with an intention one way or the other - is the one that truly kills you._

_So, Alex sees now, there are many moments that lead up to the split second change. Some seem inconsequential at the time, but all will add up. All will contribute to the change._

_The butterfly effect._

_So now, Alex can't help but wonder, what moments led up to this one? What was it that ultimately brought him here?_

_Something huge? Monumental? Or something small? As simple as a butterfly._

* * *

Alex woke up with a start, an initial feeling of panic overtaking him when he didn't immediately recognize where he was. His heart rate slowed as he realized he had just fallen asleep on the couch, and that Yassen was across from him, sleeping peacefully.

The panic came back as he realized that Yassen's breathing had changed - subtly shifting from asleep to alert, not that anyone else would notice. Something had woken them up.

Alex shifted slightly, feigning rolling in his sleep. In doing so, he angled himself to have a view through the living room windows.

Shadows encroached on his vision. The moon - which should have been full tonight - was blocked by clouds. Wind whipped the branches of trees around, blowing snow up from where it had settled on the ground.

For a moment it was impossible to tell if the lurking shadows were just trees, or something more sinister. Then the wind shifted the clouds, parting a path for the silver moonlight to touchdown. He saw it. The glint of a gun.

His breath caught for a microsecond - Alex was almost convinced that this was a nightmare, he was dreaming, surely.

"Alex?" Yassen breathed from across the room, evaporating the notion that this wasn't happening. Yassen was facing away from the window - a lax position that the assassin would never have found himself in if not for Alex - the man could not turn without it being suspicious.

"There's someone outside." His arm - flung upwards in his sleep - blocked his mouth from view. Hopefully anyone outside wouldn't suspect a thing.

"One?"

"That's all I saw, but I doubt they're alone."

"Do you see them now?"

"No, I-" Alex was cut off with a muffled bang. His sleep muddled mind just had the instinct to throw himself off the couch and onto the floor. Glass shattered, air whooshed by and then a bullet was buried in the throw pillow that had previously held Alex's head.

He moved to get up - to retaliate, to fight, to run - but a hand was suddenly there, pushing him down, a body shielding him from a second rain of glass as the other window blew inwards.

Alex glanced up from his position on his back on the hardwood floor. Under the coffee table was a handgun. The thought ran through his mind that he had always had a knack - however unwanted - for instinctive shooting. It was a long shot (literally) but…

Alex grabbed the gun, yanking it from the strategic tape that had held it aloft. Before Yassen could protest, Alex pushed himself out from under him, holding the gun in front of him the way he had been taught.

He let muscle memory take over and had let off two shots before Yassen was tackling him back to the ground. The dull thud of his body hitting the ground was preceded by two others.

"We have to get out of here!" Alex snapped, finding himself once again pinned on his back.

"We have to be _careful!_" Yassen snapped back, forcefully holding Alex still as they waited for a return fire.

None came, and eventually Yassen lifted his head to scope out the situation. Immediately a bullet punched a hole in the last remaining window. It whizzed by Yassen's head as he dropped once again. He looked back at Alex with concern obvious in his eyes.

"Who is it?" He asked. "MI6? The people from my mission?"

He would have rambled on, but Yassen interrupted with an answer that even Alex's overactive imagination wouldn't have thought up.

"I think… It's the Mafia."

"The Mafia?" Alex asked, more than a little surprised. "I've annoyed a lot of people here, but the Mafia is not included. What the fuck?"

"Language! And I think… they're probably here for me."

Alex glared at him. "Why am I not surprised? Of _course _you've been fucking with the Mafia."

"_Language._"

"Is that really the most pressing issue right now?"

"Okay!" Yassen stopped, putting on his thinking face. Alex knew better than to interrupt the assassin while he was planning. Instead he lay complacently on the ground, slowly getting colder and more annoyed.

"Okay," Yassen finally continued. "Stay below the window line. It seems like two snipers, maybe three. Probably a few around the perimeter. Go to the end of the hall and open the window. I'll cause a distraction up here."

"You want me to leave without you?"

"I want you to try…"

"Not a chance."

"Not a _choice_, Alex. You can stay hidden until MI6 comes. I can get away myself." It wasn't said that Alex would probably just slow the assassin down, but it was inferred just fine. Yassen gave him an angry look that Alex had never seen before - mixed with concern and annoyance and sadness. "Go!"

It was the way he said that last word that jolted him into action - he hadn't yelled it, had barely spoken in more than a whisper, but that single syllable had been filled with cold fury. It triggered an immediate response in Alex's brain. The same way a sergeant's order demanded obedience. The same way Ian used to give instructions. He obeyed the command without hesitation.

He crouched, staying out of the light from the busted windows, and ran down the hall. He stopped only briefly in his bedroom to shove his feet in his boots and grab his jacket.

By the time he got to the back window, it sounded like a firework show was going off. He looked out the window, catching sight of one moving shadow. The Mafioso was quickly making their way to the front of the house, towards the gunfire. The backway was left clear.

Alex took the opportunity - cursing Yassen with every breath - and ducked out the window. He dropped the few feet to the ground and ran across the lawn into the few surrounding trees. The gunfire continued behind him, sparks adding to the moonlight.

At the edge of their property, he paused. Looking back he tried to make out the figures at the front of the house. He couldn't tell who was who, couldn't even tell how many were there.

Every atom that made him up _screamed _to turn back. He could _not _abandon Yassen, he _couldn't_. Then a voice drifted through his head: _Go!_

Alex had never been one to take orders, but this time… tears freezing on his cheeks, he kept running.

* * *

Alex was curled up on a cracked concrete floor, the only warmth coming from his hole ridden blanket and the body heat of the other kids surrounding him.

It had taken him a long while to get from the small but posh house on the edge of town to the beaten down center of the city. From there, though, things got easier. He had met up with one of the many pickpocketing gangs that made up the youth homeless population, and it was easy enough to join up after he had demonstrated his proficiency in stealing.

What hadn't gotten easier was the guilt and worry that had settled like a rock in his stomach. It kept him up at night when all the other kids were fast asleep.

He hadn't heard from Yassen in the two days since they had parted ways. He tried to keep an eye and ear open for information, but it wasn't easy. He caught snippets of conversations about a shooting from people as he snuck wallets from their pockets, but if he hung around too long he gave himself away.

He tried to watch the news when he could, the couple of times he had walked past a convenience store that had a television playing, or last afternoon when the gang spent a few hours in an upper scale house of a rich couple that had left on holiday.

Still, he knew next to nothing. Least of all if Yassen was still alive.

* * *

The next morning Alex woke to an odd tremble in his hand. He must have drifted off at some point, and was prematurely awoken by the brass ring he had taken to wearing on his fourth finger.

MI6, at long last. Alex wasn't as relieved as he should have been.

Rising stiffly, he observed the dozen or so kids huddled around him. They created something like a minefield between himself and the door.

Stepping carefully, he tiptoed his way outside. It was biting cold in the early morning.

He lifted the ring to his mouth, twisting it twice so he could speak into it. Mrs. Jones herself spoke from the other side, telling him that an extraction team was waiting at the same drop point he had arranged with the Russians before the entire mission had gone tits up.

The point wasn't more than a ten minute walk from where he was now, but… part of him still hesitated, and he knew why.

He knew what Yassen would say, even knew how the assassin would say it: _Go!_

This time though, he pushed away the innate instinct to obey. He told Mrs. Jones that he could be there by sunset.

On foot, that didn't give him much time. Better get going then.

Leaving behind his small group, he took off down the back alleys of Moscow. He had traveled this path only twice, once each way, but he knew it like the back of his hand.

* * *

Alex wasn't sure what he had expected. He hadn't dealt with the Mafia much, but he had thought there would be more… well, just more.

When he turned onto the street that held their house, there was a surprising lack of red tape or policemen. That could of course be chalked up to the Mafia's hold over the police force, but even as Alex drew closer, he could see that that wasn't all.

The house looked _perfect_. Exactly like the first time Alex had laid eyes on it.

The windows that had been punched out were back and spotless. The door - that had surely taken a beating with gunfire - was perched in its frame exactly like before. Even the surrounding snow that had been trampled and melted by sparks had been replaced by yesterday's blizzard.

Alex walked closer, hesitantly. He felt like he was walking into a mirage.

He got to the front door and pulled out the key Yassen had given him. It fit the lock, and a sharp click opened the door. The hinges creaked slightly, exactly like they used to.

Inside was a ghost house - a memory of what the house looked like before he and Yassen had left their mark. He remembered thinking, the first time he had been there, that anyone could have lived in this house. Not an inch of personality or individualism. That it had looked like a house for sale, wipped of any evidence left by its previous owner.

But after living there for a few days, his opinion had changed. The few subtle differences he and Yassen had made had equaled a huge difference. He couldn't have imagined the house belonging to anyone else.

All that was gone now, giving Alex a weird sense of deja vu. The sudden, unexpected difference gave him a sharp migraine.

Feeling sick, he backed out of the barren household. He braced himself for a moment on the side of the doorframe, blinking rapidly and pressing a hand to his suddenly tight chest.

He looked down at the porch, marked only by his fresh footprint in the snow. Something caught his attention - a glint, but not like sun on snow. More like… sun on glass.

He knelt, looking closely at one of the footprints he had made. Still half buried in snow was a jagged piece of glass, no bigger than Alex's hand. From one of the windows.

Barely thinking about it, he ripped a small piece of cloth from his already torn and beaten up jacket. Crouching low, he grabbed the piece of glass, wrapped it up, and put it gently in his pocket. It was the only proof he had now, that anything had happened here at all. The only thing that reminded Alex that he hadn't imagined it all.

Then, with a final shaking breath and a last glance at the barren home, he pulled his hood up and went to meet his extraction team. Leaving the house bare and pristine: as if they had never been there at all.


	9. From Russia With Love

**Summary:** Alex used to pass notes in was different. This was better.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**9—**

Timeline: Between _Take a Shot, Any Kind Will Do _and _House Sweet House_

_A piece of paper, blank and crisp and unused. Brand new, with a world of possibilities attached. A white A4 sheet of paper can be anything - it has potential to the point of being unlimited. It may not look like much, but it can, given time._

_It can host colour and creativity. Can be beaten black and blue with ink, covered in calligraphy. It can be home to binding documents or laws. It can hold the last words a person leaves on this planet._

_It can be crumpled and torn and thrown out without a thought. Scattered in the breeze. Gone up in smoke, used as tinder for a few seconds of warmth._

_The possibilities are endless._

* * *

Alex was sitting in a doorless, windowless bunker. The air stiff and dusty. The only way in or out was a circular hatch fifteen feet above his head, and that was sealed shut. Cranked tightly closed with a metal wheel. The bunker was large enough, but Alex can't help but feel a little claustrophobic.

Earthquakes periodically shook him to the core, making dust rain from the rafters. Once a hairline crack appeared in the concrete above him, and Alex stared at it until his eyes burned. He coughed, feeling like the particle-filled air was getting thicker by the second. He and the other agents weren't allowed to leave until the aftershocks ended - Alex was concerned that they would suffocate first.

It was dark and grim. The dim emergency lights were barely enough to allow Alex to read the page in front of him, and they cast everything in a creepy red glow. It was like being in a Halloween haunted house. Or the red light district.

He was tucked up in a corner, as far away from the others as possible. The letter in his hand was written in Russian, which Alex felt was meant to tease him. Indeed, he stumbled through the letter with his subpar knowledge of the Russian language, cursing the sender with every word.

Still, he couldn't keep the smile off his face. If any of the other agents were looking at him, they would probably think he was insane.

His fingers traced the words, the shape of the letters familiar in any language. He ran the pads of his fingers over his own name, addressed at the top. Then he did the same to the name at the end - the sign off. _With love_.

It had been yesterday that he found the note, folded into the tiniest square possible and tucked into the battery compartment of his emergency torch. It had been a pleasant surprise after ending up down here in the dark - he had pulled out his torch and been irritated that it hadn't worked. Had gone to change the batteries, only to find the hidden message.

He would have to get rid of the note soon (had already kept it long past what was safe). He was reluctant to destroy the only contact he had had with Yassen since Russia.

Unless, of course, you counted the half-second they had shared a glance at the airstrip. Alex catching a glimpse of him during takeoff. That small moment had put him at ease in some ways, knowing that Yassen was out there and that he was okay.

In other ways, it added to his stress. What was he doing in London, right under MI6's nose? Was it just to see him? Or did he have an assignment?

Alex wasn't sure which option was worse. If Yassen had an assignment, well, that was bad news for someone. On the other hand, if he didn't and he was just there to see Alex… if MI6 caught him it would be Alex's fault. He wasn't sure he could live with that kind of guilt.

At least he knew that - as of whenever Yassen had delivered him the note - Yassen was fine and a free man. Also, that Yassen somehow knew where he was, and was capable of getting this note to him. Alex was more than a little impressed.

But what else was new?

Taking just one more minute, he memorized as much of the message as he could. It wasn't necessarily important information - actually, most of it was idle chit chat - but Alex still wanted to remember.

Finally, Alex managed to bring himself to tear the page in half, right along one of the crease lines. He kept ripping, systematically reducing the page to a handful of curled shreds. He held the little mound in his palms, delicately for a moment, then crumpled them into a tight ball. He would have to burn the pieces later, but this would do for the moment.


	10. Living Nightmare

**Summary:** A little heart to heart, a few oceans between them.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

**—10—**

Timeline: Between _Little Bird_ and _Run to Ground_

_When Alex was young, Ian was away a lot. This is not new information. Sometimes Alex was left alone for days, weeks, in foreign cities._

_In way of a solution, Ian had given Alex a cellphone. For emergencies. He had been the youngest one at Brooklands to have a cellphone - and even though it was a cheap flip phone, his classmates thought it was amazing. Bleeding edge technology at the time. It even had a few games._

_And Alex was young, not yet as responsible as he would be one day. Within a few weeks, the cellphone was lost._

_Ian had been out of town at the time, and a young Alex had frantically tried to find it. Had scoured his schoolyard and classroom and house._

_He had feared the lecture his uncle would surely dress him down with - even more so, feared losing his uncle's trust._

_Good job, Alex. I know I can always count on you. Words Ian would say when Alex had obeyed an order particularly well._

_Don't ask questions. Just go down this alley and wait until I find you._

_Go home now, Alex. Take the long way._

_Take this, Alex, don't look at it. Just hold onto it for a while._

_Speak in German, Alex. Pretend you don't understand English._

_Alex, we're going to play spies now. I don't want anyone on this street to see you._

_A few of the orders Alex had followed without question, though they had made little sense at the time._

_Eventually, Alex had found it. A mate on his football team had been looking at it while Alex played, and had forgotten to put it back. Apologies all around, and everything turned out alright._

_In that case, though, Alex had known what he was looking for._

* * *

_This was odd_, Alex thought, looking down at his phone that brightly displayed Yassen's number. Completely out of hand, and just downright weird.

It had been nearly a month since Alex had first contacted the assassin, which had led to several text messages, emails, and now this: a phone call.

He hadn't heard Yassen's voice since Air Force One - when the man was telling him to go find his destiny with Scorpia. That hadn't turned out so well, though Alex didn't hold it against the assassin. In fact, that whole Scorpia fiasco was the reason he was receiving a call from Yassen now.

He had tentatively broached the subject with Yassen over text yesterday - he wanted to know why the man had sent him to Scorpia, he had wanted answers. Yassen had been amicable about it, but had told him that such a subject was easier discussed over the phone, rather than in writing.

On the third ring, Alex found the courage to hit accept. He held the phone to his ear for a moment.

"Hello?" It sounded like a question, despite the fact that Alex knew exactly who was on the other line.

"Alex." His breath caught. That voice, so familiar. If you stripped away the slight distortion caused by the phone, it was the exact voice that Alex remembered.

"It's good to hear your voice," Alex said before he could stop himself. The comment surprised both Yassen and himself.

Over the line, he heard Yassen give a surprised chuckle. Alex held himself back from saying that it was good to hear him laugh too. When Alex was younger, he hadn't thought the man capable of laughter, or any kind of joy or emotion in general.

"You as well," Yassen replied. "You sound older."

"Well, I am."

Alex could hear Yassen breathing through the receiver. It caught for a second. "Not by much."

Which of course was true. By the standards of their respective jobs, it hadn't really been that long since they had seen each other. It only _felt _like ages. To Alex, at least.

He shook his head, realizing that they were both stalling. Reminiscing over sentiments to avoid a harsher topic. Alex decided to end the charade.

"So…" He began, voice sounding just a fraction tighter. "Your organization…" Scorpia, which neither of them would say the name of, even over secure lines.

"I'm sorry, Alex," Yassen was quick to say. Alex wondered at that - the man was obviously aware of what had transpired between him and the terrorist group, but why the apology? Did Yassen feel guilty for sending Alex into such a situation? The man couldn't have known how it would turn out, not at the time. "I should never had sent you there."

"Why did you, then?" Alex tried to keep any accusation out of his voice. He didn't blame Yassen. He _didn't_.

"I thought they would protect you. That day on the plane… you almost died. I thought my organization would get you away from your agency. I didn't realize that they knew about John-"

"You know about my father?" He jumped in, suddenly feeling a sailors knot tighten in his stomach. He had purposely avoided the subject of his father, unsure if Yassen had known of the man's status as a double agent. Alex worried about how discovering such information would affect Yassen.

"Yes, I did. I know that he really worked for your agency, even when he was training me."

Alex hesitated, unsure of what emotion - if any - he was detecting in Yassen's voice. "And you aren't… angry?"

He heard Yassen emit a soft laugh, barely audible. "No matter what side John was on, he was exactly the man I thought him to be. The fact that he was working with my opposition just means I owe him even more. He could have - and probably should have - killed me on numerous occasions. Instead, he trained me. He gave me options when there were none."

"Like you did for me, offering me an escape from… my agency."

"Yes," Yassen answered, "Though, unlike you, I didn't take the out."

"When did you find out about him?" Alex asked. Before or after death?

Yassen hesitated a moment, calling up the memory. "It wasn't long before John went back to your agency. I found a transmitter in his bag that I had learned about. I knew the technology was from your agency. I never mentioned it to anyone."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief. A part of him had been scared that Yassen had found out about his father being a double agent and had told. He knew that Ash was ultimately responsible for the death of his best friend, but if Yassen had confirmed that John Rider was a traitor, it could have been a factor that led to the bomb on the plane.

He told Yassen as much.

"Plane?" The man asked, for once exhibiting an emotion Alex could deduce: confusion.

A few puzzle pieces clicked into place. "You thought he died on Albert Bridge, didn't you?" His voice sounded resigned, even to himself. He worried he had just opened a can of worms that were better left closed.

"Well…" Yassen hesitated again, as if putting his own puzzle together. "I suppose I knew the Bridge was a fake. A ploy to get John back to your agency. But I didn't realize what had happened after… That after everything, he was killed anyway just days later."

There was a pause, neither of them sure what to say. Alex didn't know how Yassen would react to finding out that his parents killer was their best friend - and Alex's Godfather.

"How did it happen, exactly?" Yassen asked, and Alex realized he wouldn't be getting out of this story.

Slowly, he explained about Ash, the plane, how he himself had narrowly avoided going down in flames. Yassen listened silently, only commenting when it was clear Alex had finished.

"They really do make killers of people…" Yassen said, referring to Scorpia and Ash. Maybe to MI6 as well. After all, Alex was a killer, wasn't he? And that hadn't started with Scorpia.

"I know," Alex responded, thinking of his own time there, how by the end of it human targets seemed easy. "I still have nightmares about it."

He waited for a response, which was a surprisingly long time coming. Then he realized what he had said.

"Oh," Alex started, suddenly feeling flustered and panicked. He hadn't meant to accuse Yassen of anything. "I didn't mean - uh, I mean, I didn't-"

"It's okay," Yassen finally answered.

"I don't blame you, you know," Alex told him sincerely. "For any of it."

"I sometimes wonder if you should. You would be well within your rights to hate me."

Alex frowned. "I don't."

"You used to," Yassen argued. Alex wondered why he was pushing so hard.

Alex remembered that day on the rooftop. His promise that he would kill Yassen one day. It seemed like forever ago.

"Well," Alex tried not to sound defensive, "Not anymore. It wasn't your fault any more than the other parties involved - myself included."

He heard Yassen sigh - Alex didn't think he had managed to convince the man, but hopefully it was a start.

His phone vibrated. Not the one he was speaking on, no, Yassen had provided him with that. His personal cell. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the display. MI6.

"Alex?" The word jolted him back. He realized Yassen had probably asked him something, though he had been too distracted to know what.

"Sorry," He said, hesitating before he continued. "Duty calls, I have to go."

Yassen took a moment, clearly as reluctant as Alex was to cut their talk short.

"Talk soon?" Yassen asked.

"I'll call you when I get home," He answered.

"Goodluck," Yassen paused. Alex was about to hang up, but then: "And Alex?

"Yes?"

"Sweet dreams." Alex looked outside, realizing that it was dark out and they had talked well into the night. But then, MI6 was calling. He doubted he would be sleeping anytime soon - let alone receiving any 'sweet dreams'.

He replied in kind anyway. Yassen didn't need to know his line of thinking. "Sweet dreams."

And with that he disconnected their call. He took a breath, then answered his ringing phone a second before it rang out.

"Hello?" It sounded like a question, despite the fact that Alex knew exactly who was on the other line.

"_Agent Rider…"_


	11. House Sweet House

**Summary:** Easier doesn't always mean easy.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

—**11—**

Timeline: Between _From Russia With Love_ and _Home Sweet Home_

_A house is sturdy, strong. Built carefully from the ground up. One brick at a time. The foundation must be deep, going down to bedrock, to hold the house fast against floods and weather it against the storms._

_Every house is different, some are big, some are small. Some are brick. Others are wood. Some will last only for a little while; need to be maintained by the occupants, and will fall to ruin once they leave._

_Some will last a hundred years. Some will stand as monuments, proud structures that will prove this is a house._

_The Pyramids of Egypt. Buckingham Palace. The Presidential White House._

_Monuments to last a million years, in the minds and hearts of all who bear witness._

* * *

A quick stint in the hospital for once yielded no negative results. The short check upended with the doctor proclaiming that Alex was healthy, and cleared for active duty.

Another first: Alex was not pleased by this verdict.

He would have much rather been put on 'bed rest' for a few days - it would have given him an excuse to hang around London, and hopefully would have given Yassen enough time to make an appearance.

Unfortunately, when Alex was given the A-okay, he was also given a new mission assignment from Mrs. Jones. A night's rest at home was all he would get, then it was off to new and mysterious places (filled with new and mysterious people).

Alex nodded along, knowing that any excuse he made to stay would be weak and feeble - and would likely bring up questions that he didn't want to answer. He took a taxi back to his house, walking up to the familiar building. He opened the door, making his way to his room on autopilot. He tossed his bag at the foot of his bed - the hairs suddenly stood up on the back of his neck.

Pretending nothing was wrong, he walked over to his bedroom window. In the reflection of the glass he saw a figure, previously hidden by his door when it had swung inwards.

Fast as he could, Alex opened his bedside drawer and snatched up the gun he kept there (one of many in his house). He spun around, raising the gun, finger already on the trigger.

By the time he had the gun at firing height, the figure had crossed the room, halting only a few feet away, just out of his reach. Alex stopped, poised to fire.

"_Yassen, you dick!"_ He kept the gun steady, too stunned to think about lowering it. His heart was beating madly in his chest.

Yassen stood across from him, smirking slightly. The man stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and the barrel of Alex's gun. He stayed there for a moment, cool metal pressed against his shirt, then reached up.

His hand wrapped around Alex's, gently forcing him to lower the gun.

"Let's put that down, shall we? You could hurt someone with that." The safety was slid into place - Alex wasn't sure if it was him or Yassen that had done that.

Alex glared at the assassin - surprise gone, only to be replaced with annoyance. "You would bloody deserve it, you scared me half to death! I thought someone had broken in!"

"Someone did," Yassen pointed out.

"You know what I mean, smart ass."

"_Such_ language," Yassen scolded. "Didn't we have a discussion about that?"

Alex snorted, not bothering to reply, instead sitting huffily on his bed and putting his handgun away. Yassen sat next to him, smiling a little more softly now. An arm wrapped around him, and Alex found it very difficult to stay grumpy.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to see you sooner - there was never a good time." Between Alex's missions and MI6 surveillance, he understood.

"It's okay," Alex replied, shifting to lean more comfortably against Yassen's side. "I was just worried about you."

He felt the vibrations of Yassen's laugh, and realized himself how silly it sounded, being worried about a top tier assassin. Still, it was the truth.

They sat together in silence for a while - the sunlight was slowly replaced with moonlight, and then cut off completely when the rain started falling.

"I leave again tomorrow," Alex said quietly, reluctant to break the comfortable silence they had fallen into.

"I'll see you when you get back."

Alex shifted, looking up at Yassen. "Do you have to go?" With the rain, now was the best opportunity to slip out unseen.

"I'll stay, for a bit at least."

Alex smiled, knowing why exactly Yassen wanted to stay. The man knew about his nightmares, obviously, and knew that the first night back from a mission was always the worst.

"Go change," Yassen told him. "Get ready for bed."

Alex nodded, grabbing some comfy clothes and ducking into the bathroom.

When he exited, his stomach twisted in knots seeing that his room was now empty. The feeling only lasted a moment, because then his room door was being opened and Yassen was back, carrying a couple of glasses of water.

He placed them on the bedside, then sat back down on Alex's bed. The man gestured for Alex to crawl under the covers, and Alex didn't put up a fight.

Nestled in his bed, Yassen made a show of 'tucking him in', which ended in Alex giggling uncontrollably and tangled up in the blankets. Eventually, they managed to settle down, blanket up to Alex's chin, Yassen sitting next to him, leaning against the headboard with his feet propped up.

Alex settled against him, instantly transported to their cozy little house in Russia. How many times did he fall asleep like this? Comforted, happy. It hadn't been a long time, but long enough for Alex to have missed this. Missed Yassen. Without him… Alex felt like he was going through withdrawal.

"Sweet dreams, Alex."

Alex smiled at the sentiment - knowing that it would likely be anything but sweet. Still, it was a little easier to bear with Yassen there.

Easier when he woke up screaming, because Yassen was there to calm him. Easier when he woke again, in a cold sweat, with Yassen at his shoulder. Easier when he jolted awake, confused but soothed by the voice next to him.

Easier even when he woke, not from a nightmare, but because something had changed. Easier even when he woke to find the sun rising and Yassen gone.

He held onto the memory of Yassen like a lifeline, but like dreams, they faded away. Blew away in whisps until all he was left with was his nightmares and his big, empty house.


	12. Home Sweet Home

**Summary:** Home is where the heart is.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

**—12—**

Timeline: After _House Sweet House_

_Love is sturdy, strong. Built carefully from the beginning onwards. The foundation must be deep, going down to bedrock, hold the love fast against floods and weather it against the storms._

_Every love is different, some are big, some are small. Some are sweet. Some are hard. Some are made from fire and brimstone. Some will last only for a little while; need to be maintained and will fall to ruin once the love is lost._

_Some will last a hundred years. Some will get down in history, and will prove this is true love._

_Romeo and Juliet. Helen of Troy. Cleopatra and Antony._

_Love stories to last a million years, in the minds and hearts of all who bare witness._

* * *

Alex stopped a third of the way up the stairs, grimacing in pain. He breathed harshly for a moment, sinking down and sitting on the carpeted steps. He reached down to rub his aching ankle.

This last mission had been tough, physically and mentally. He had been granted a leave of absence to nurse his injuries. Now he was back in his big, musty house. Alex bit his lip, contemplating the stairs he still had to climb.

Not for the first time, Alex realized how impractical his house was. Back when he had Ian and Jack, the large house made sense. But now it was just him, and the huge building was difficult to keep up. Not to mention the stairs were murder every time Alex came home from a mission.

After the throbbing in his ankle subsided, Alex rose slowly. It suddenly felt like he had aged fifty years. His back and ribs protested. His bruised and battered body revolting against the movement.

He stumbled up the stairs, not even bothering to avoid the strategically placed creaky boards.

Gratefully, he nudged his room door open. Everything was just as he had left it - two, half empty glasses on the bedside table, his handgun sat next to them. He limped over, bracing himself on the edge of the table. He picked up the gun, intent on putting it away. The drawer opened with a light creak - inside sat a book, a small flashlight, a spare phone charger, and a piece of glass wrapped up in torn fabric.

He smiled, thinking of the house in Russia, the glass gleaming in the fresh snow. His thoughts drifted to Yassen, as they often did. As if conjured by the thought, he heard a creak behind him.

He went to turn, still smiling. Mouth open to speak - to say hello, ask how in hell the man kept getting in here, but he was interrupted by a soft click.

"Stay where you are, Agent Rider. And you can toss that gun aside."

Alex froze. So, not Yassen then.

Making sure to keep his finger very obviously off the trigger, he tossed the gun gently aside. The man's eyes would follow, he was sure, drawn naturally to the movement. The gun bounced once, twice, and settled. His other hand lingered for a moment in the open drawer before he pulled it clear, fingers spread wide. He moved both hands into a position of surrender.

The small click of a gun cocking echoed through the room. Alex swallowed, his throat suddenly painfully dry. There was a window in front of him, and he could just make out the blurred reflection of the figure behind him. He focused on that. Flipping the image in his mind and combining that with where he had heard the voice come from, trying to create a mental picture.

"Who are you?" He asked, hoping to get the man - because it was a man, going by the cadence of the voice - talking. Talking was better than shooting.

"Oh, no one of importance," the man told him, voice awfully nonchalant for someone poised to kill. "My employer however…"

"And this employer of yours?" Alex asked, trying to keep a steady, light voice. Never show fear. "What do they want?"

"Just some information. And - if you prove uncooperative - your life. But it needn't come to that. You seem like a smart boy with good survival instincts."

"That I am," Alex agreed. If it came down to his life or MI6's secrets, there was little contest. Few things that he would not spill to keep his head attached to his shoulders. "So?"

There was a pause. The cool metal of the gun's muzzle was pressed against the back of Alex's skull, further cementing his position. Alex did not move.

"Yassen Gregorovich."

There was a pause. Tension built in the air.

"Who?"

He was not sure how, but he knew the man's grip had tightened on his gun. Alex flinched as the trigger was pulled. The gun shifted; Alex felt the wind coming off the bullet as it flashed past his face. The window shattered into a trillion grains of glass.

Alex squeezed his hands so tightly, blood began to dribble from the palm of his right hand. He took a breath, loosened his fist.

"Wrong answer," The man told him.

Alex's breath trembled as he released it. Jagged shards of glass were scattered on the floor and along the window sill. Like many pieces of an abandoned puzzle.

A distinct memory came forth - of Russia and windows being blown inwards. Glass and glass and glass.

In Alex's own hand, a similar shard of glass resided. His thumb holding it flat against his hand. Blood dripped from it, Alex's own, but otherwise it could have been the twin of any piece that surrounded him. This piece, however, had migrated all the way from Russia.

Before the man behind him could cock the gun again, Alex sprung into action. He spun on one foot, the sole of his sneaker squeaking, lunged forwards, and thrust out the hand holding the large shard.

The first glimpse he got of the man was of wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Shock, and blood dripping from his jugular. A horrible gurgling sound bubbled from the man's throat.

The man crumpled - glass crunching beneath him and cutting into his pallor skin. Slicing him like a paper shredder. The would-be assassin's hands clutched his ravaged neck, but the blood kept pouring out. Spurting between his fingers.

Alex was glad his room was hardwood, rather than carpet. This would be a nightmare to clean as it was.

Alex dropped his makeshift weapon, losing it among the many other shards around him. It disappeared in a pool of blood, dotted with crystalline pieces.

His breathing steadied, seemingly on its own accord. Alex felt oddly calm. Looking down, he caught sight of his hand, blood covering it as thoroughly as a glove. Caught, red-handed.

He stepped over the bleeding corpse, retracing his path downstairs. The ache in his leg forgotten, along with the pain in his hand. On some level, he realized that was a bad thing. He found himself standing over the kitchen sink, watching red turn pink with water and wash down the drain. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully.

The water had long since run clear, yet Alex still stood there, hand under the tap. The thought occurred to him that maybe he was in shock.

Which was, of course, simply ridiculous. He had killed people before - in even more brutal ways than this one. There is no reason, absolutely none at all, that this should have such an effect on him.

But then… this was different from a mission. This was his _home_. His childhood home. Alex had been unprepared, unsuspecting, and completely caught off guard.

And the man had mentioned Yassen… that meant people were noticing. Noticing his and Yassen's… relationship. That was not good. Not for anyone. He would have to speak with Yassen about it.

"Alex?"

Alex spun around sharply, spraying water from the faucet across the room. Somehow - though Alex did not remember picking it up - a kitchen knife was clutched in his left hand, proffered in front of him as a barrier.

Certainly, a knife would be more effective than a shard of glass - and it had already been seen the kind of damage Alex could inflict with the lesser of the two.

"Alex?" The voice was sharp with surprise. "What are you- are you hurt?"

The voice grew louder. Alex knew that meant the person had moved closer. He stepped back in response, his back colliding with the counter, a line of water soaking his shirt.

"Alex? Hey- hey!" Someone grabbed his wrist, Alex flinched back, but had nowhere else to move. Trapped by the counter. Something pressed against his hip, keeping him still. Distantly, he heard a clatter as the knife he held was forced from his hand and fell to the tile floor.

Then he focused on the concerned blue eyes in front of him. He stopped struggling, though his hand still shook and his body trembled.

"Yassen," Alex barely recognized his own voice. He blinked, trying to focus, realized his vision was blurred with tears.

"What happened, Alex?" Yassen asked, calmer now, but still on edge. "Are you hurt?"

Alex shook his head, "Just, um, my hand is all."

The grip on his wrist turned into a steady hold, spreading his hand, fingers running along his palm. The tension seeped from Yassen's body - Alex guessed the injury wasn't too bad.

"Who did this?" Alex's thoughts drifted to the body, lying broken and bloodied upstairs. "Alex?"

He managed to mumble something to the extent of upstairs. The pressure on his wrist and waist disappeared.

And then the pain returned. A sharp pang in his ankle that sent him sinking to the floor. His hand was shaking - blood had welled up again, now that he had taken his hand from the water stream. The white tiles of his kitchen floor, usually clean enough to eat off of, were stained red.

Alex closed his eyes, listening to the gentle thuds as Yassen went upstairs. Noted that the assassin, though he had only been in the house a few times, had already learned which creaky steps to skip and which loose floorboards to bypass.

There was a pause, and Alex knew Yassen had reached his room. He pictured the scene: door left open, blood spreading out from the mutilated corpse in the centre of the room. Pieces of glass scattered haphazardly.

Alex had never realized how much blood the human body held until he had killed someone. He could imagine his entire bedroom flooded with the viscous red liquid.

The steps reversed themselves until Yassen reappeared in the kitchen. A second of panic passed through his eyes as he couldn't locate Alex, then cleared as they saw him curled on the floor.

Yassen crouched in front of him, and Alex focused on the kind eyes before him.

"Let's go, Alex," Yassen said gently. "You're not sleeping here tonight."

Alex nodded immediately - the thought of sleeping in the same room, even the same house, as the crime scene upstairs made him sick. His stomach flipped inside out, and Alex thought he might puke.

He shook nausea away as he was tugged carefully to his feet. He stumbled against Yassen's side, but was kept on his feet by strong arms.

"Come on," Alex didn't think he had ever heard Yassen sound so sweet. He allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen.

Light fingers brushed his chin, his cheeks. Alex tilted his head against Yassen's chest.

His hand felt warm and slick. Alex glanced down, seeing the cut on his palm looked as nasty as ever.

"I'll fix that up," Yassen told him, following Alex's gaze to his hand. "It might need a stitch or two, but it isn't as bad as it looks."

Alex nodded, unable to formulate any other response.

"How did you get it?" He spoke to Alex like he was made of glass.

Alex froze, causing Yassen's to stumble to a halt. A curious look crossed Yassen's face.

"I'll… be right back."

"What?" But Alex had already pushed away, almost collapsing under his full weight, but he powered on. He pushed himself up from the wall, leaving a smear of red, and booked it up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

It was even worse than he imagined: the blood had flowed all the way into the hall.

Carelessly, he trod into the slowly expanding puddle. Footprints sunk into the drying fluid. His sneakers made a sickening suction sound as he walked.

The blood was not bubbling like a fountain from the man's neck anymore, but had slowed to a dull trickle.

The glass shards had all but disappeared, bits and pieces just barely peeking up, like so many islands in a lake.

In the background, he heard Yassen shouting in surprise, the sound of footsteps hammering after him. But he was solely focused on his goal.

He dropped to his knees, ignoring the glass the sliced his shins and hands as he scrambled through the sluggish, drying blood. Alex grimaced at the feeling of cold blood. His fingers stained a brownish colour, and clots found their way under Alex's nails. He gagged.

"Alex, what the hell?" Yassen was there, wading through the muck to drag Alex to his feet. But not before he found the shard of glass - the equilateral shape familiar, etched into his memory. He gripped it tight, but was careful this time not to break his own skin.

Yassen looked both shocked and curious and confused, but those emotions were quickly shoved aside. Priorities.

"You look like a mess," Yeah, Alex thought. I feel like it, too. "Let's get you out of here - and out of those clothes."

Blue eyes glanced at the glass in his hand. Alex saw Yassen contemplate taking it away from him, and he gripped in a little more closely. Yassen shook his head, deciding it was not worth the trouble.

It was worth a lot to Alex. It had saved his life.

* * *

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew, Yassen was helping him from the passenger side of a car. Alex did not recognize the part of London they were in - if they were even in London at all. It felt like he had been asleep for a fortnight.

"It's alright," Yassen reassured him. "Nearly there."

'There' turned out to be a posh little house. A single floor with an open layout. There was a single bedroom, which Alex was led through, that connected to a surprisingly large bathroom. It had a bathtub as well as a huge shower, and a large cabinet dominated one wall.

Yassen helped him sit on the edge of the tub. Alex was conscious of the smears of blood he was leaving all along the pristine white bath. He wondered what kind of mess he had made in the car.

Yassen opened the cabinet - Alex glimpsed bottles upon bottles of over the counter medicine (and some stuff that looked considerably harder to come by), and rows upon rows of bandages and wraps and other medical supplies.

A pair of silver scissors were produced, and made swift work of Alex's clothes. A few well-aimed snips left Alex shivering in his boxers.

Yassen's hands hovered over his skin, the man hesitated, looking unsure of where to start.

"Shower," he decided, dragging Alex to his feet. His ankle protested, and Alex was harshly reminded that the doctors had put him on bed rest.

Alex was led into the large glass shower, easily big enough for the two of them. Yassen turned on the spray. It was cold at first, Alex flinched, but within seconds it heated up. The water turned pink and swirled down the drain.

The heat seeped into his muscles, calming him. Alex had just let his eyes slip shut against the steam when Yassen dragged him out. Faster than Alex could comprehend, Yassen had thrown four stitches into the slice on his palm, and had neatly wrapped it up.

"You look exhausted," Yassen told him, voice soft. He tilted Alex's chin up, and looked at him with scrunched eyebrows and pursed lips.

"Funny," Alex mumbled, "Cause I feel _fantastic_."

Yassen laughed briefly. "You're feeling well enough to be sarcastic, apparently."

Alex's heart stuttered. His senses - that had felt like they were sitting on standby - flooded back in a rush. He blinked. Then smiled slightly.

"That really doesn't say much."

Yassen smiled at him, then scrutinized Alex's beat-up body - more black and blue than anything else. A soft towel ran through his hair and over his skin. He replaced the wrap that had stabilized his ankles, and rubbed a soothing ointment over the prominent bruises covering his back, chest and shoulders. Other cuts were kissed together with butterfly bandages.

Alex let Yassen work, dozing slightly. Chin dropping before he jerked himself awake. After what seemed like ages, or maybe just a moment, Yassen nodded in satisfaction.

Still damp hands guided Alex to his feet. He was led by the hand into another room, which was dominated by a large bed. Yassen leaned past to draw the covers back, and Alex crawled in.

The warm duvet was pulled up to his chin. Exhausted, Alex couldn't do more than snuggle deeper against the pillow and draw the blanket closer to him.

"Where are we?" He mumbled, already drifting off to sleep.

"For now?" Yassen answered, voice fading into white noise. "Home."

* * *

**Rückkehrunruhe: the feeling of returning home from an immersive trip, only to find it rapidly fading from your awareness.**

* * *

AN: That's all folks! Thank you for everyone that has read and reviewed, and I would love to hear your thoughts before you go. I hope everyone is staying safe, healthy and happy, in this time of global tumult. It can be stressful and even scary, and I hope my story helped brighten up a dark time, even just a little bit.


	13. Chronological Timeline

One last thing! Some have been asking about the order of the chapters, which are purposely mixed up. I have been trying to get creative with my writing, and this is one of the things I am testing out. I would love to hear if you thought it was worthwhile, or confusing, or anything.

For those who are interested in reading the story in chronological order, I have laid it out below.

* * *

Chronological Timeline:

1: Little Bird (Chapter 2)

2: Living Nightmare (Chapter 10)

3: Run to Ground (Chapter 4)

4: Games of Chance (Chapter 6)

5: The Beauty of a Snow Storm (Chapter 1)

6: Companionship (Chapter 3)

7: Dreamscape (Chapter 5)

8: Up Up and Away (Chapter 8)

9: Take a Shot, Any Kind Will Do (Chapter 7)

10: From Russia With Love (Chapter 9)

11: House Sweet House (Chapter 11)

12: Home Sweet Home (Chapter 12)

* * *

Thank you all once again!


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